Form
The first attempts were agonizing.
My body, unaccustomed to the rigid posture, shifted, squirmed, and screamed in protest.
My mind, even more rebellious, spontaneously erupted. Sputtering waves of paranoia, shame, anger, fear, outward judgments, inner dialogue, and random images. Oh, the imagery.
The movies in my mind.
For years, I’d sat.
As an over-the-road truck driver, I’d sat for hours on end. Bleary-eyed, staring out the windshield at a horizon I knew I’d never reach.
Why was this any different?
“Shikantaza,” my Roshi smiled.
‘Just sit.’
And so, day after day, driven by a burning desire to escape what I had become… I sat.
And I struggled.
Oh, how my life had taken shape.
inˈfôrmd
The beauty of meditation lies in its bleak simplicity.
“Just sit.”
But how?
It shouldn’t be that difficult, but it is. To sit. And do nothing else.
You have to do something with your mind, of course. Otherwise, your mind will do terrible things with you.
So you count your breaths from 1 to 10, then over again.
Or repeat a mantra, the Lord’s prayer, the name of God, Krishna, Ram, YHWH…let your mind run wild, or say your prayers over and over. It’s up to you.
Just sit.
And when you sit, sit still. Sit heavy. Sit tall. Extend your spine. Reach for the sky with the crown of your head.
And when you breathe, breathe deep. Sink your diaphragm into your hara, the root of your soul, just below your navel. That is the form.
Just sit.
Eyes half-open, softly gaze at a wall or at the floor just an arm’s length away.
Arms at your sides, shoulder blades tucked flat, elbows out, as holding an egg under each armpit.
Just sit.
Hands in your lap, palms up, left over right, thumbtips lightly touching, as holding a delicate young blade of grass. That is the form.
Just sit.
In through the nose, belly fills with air, extend your crown to the sky.
Out through the nose, belly deflates. Sink roots deep into the earth. That is the form.
Just sit.
That is the form.
Just sit.
Am I any different?
Forty minutes at a time, five times a day: 5:00 am, 10:00 am, 2:00 pm, 4:00 pm, and 8:00 pm.
And once a month, the eleventh of every month, I sat a four-hour block, from 2:00 am until 6:00 am.
After practicing the form for many years, my mental movies have become stills, less frequent, or interesting.
The dialogue has diminished. Commentary all but ceased.
But have I changed?
…yes, Anne’d
My friend Anne is a fantastic writer and brilliant storyteller. If you don’t subscribe to her newsletter, you really should. She’s brilliant.
She’s also prolific, which is maddening. I should publish so often.
“Why can’t I do that?” I wonder.
But I know why. I know exactly why.
Anne has a reliable form she returns to each and every time she writes.
Whereas I squirm, fidget, and fight every word…
Anne returns to form, and through her form, she flows.
She taught me the form, Anne did. She continues teaching me the form with every article she publishes.
But I don’t use it much. My form is different.
We connected recently, Anne and I. Just two friends catching up.
During our conversation, I told Anne how much I enjoyed her work and how relatable, insightful, and inspiring her stories were.
“You know you’ve told a real, relatable story,” I told her, “when people can’t wait to tell you their own version of that very same experience.”
“That’s how your stories are, Anne. You see the things others miss and see them more beautifully.”
“My stories aren’t like that,” I told her. “My stories tend to be…dark…abstract.”
“Oh, Paul,” she said. “I see God in everything you write.”
Perhaps I have changed after all. If only a tiny bit.
Or, perhaps, this is truly Anne’s gift—to see the light in others who still see themselves through a glass darkly.
But either way, just as Jacob wrestled with God to become Israel (יִשְׂרָאֵל -“he who struggless with God,”) …I, too, struggle.
I struggle daily.
And that is my form.
That is my beautiful form.
Oh, how my life is taking shape.
I love you guys! 💖
Be good to one another. 🤗
—Paul