There is no constant that holds my body together. Or yours. I believe I am a body and inside the body there are important functions happening, but I also believe it is this belief that keep me intact. Or trapped.
I have begun meditating in love toward people. Both people I outright love and people I don’t quite love. In fact, I don’t quite like them. Let’s be honest.
My body lies on a bed and my mind meditates on love, then grows a little plant of love on the top of its head (my head) and the plant, in turn, gives off light. First a soft, slow, trudging light. Then it begins to fill more of the room until I push it out the window and into the night. I meditate all the way to the person’s room.
Most of the time, since I don’t like the person, I’ve never been in their room. So it’s improvised. And you know what I am shocked–my out-of-body-plant-light is shocked– to witness their tenderness, vulnerability.
Not often at late-dark-thirty at night do you not see someone’s humanity while sneaking your light meditating eye into their house. Someone is crying. Someone is yelling at their lover. Someone is drinking too much wine. Someone is tossing and turning. I am not a body. Neither are they. And nothing holds me together. Especially this sadness and anger and disappointment. This inadequacy I feel at being a less than perfect human being, especially for accepting the person(s) I do not like’s resentment, jealousy, anger.
We are all tiny children running around looking at stones to kick. How to bury our wounds. Some–most–of us end up in a garden of our own watermelon misery, selling the fruit to others. What I mean is, my body is not all there is, nor is yours. And light we return to. Where there is no dark or bedrooms or need for meditation.
Someone see me in the middle of the night. All this loud confusion at being human with light plants growing off the top of my head in a body I borrowed.