Meditation comes in a peculiar form for me. It often involves long walks alone, sometimes aimlessly, through the city streets and many twisting paths of its green areas. The sensation is calming and that is why I place it under what I see as the broad banner of ‘meditation’.
The rush of hours always brings a tightness to my chest, as if my heart and lungs were constricted. When I am pressed by outside influences into a schedule, I sweat. I shake and tremble. I am a wreck.
The solitary walks (at times with music singing in my ears and at times without) have no routine or schedule. There is nowhere I must be at any particular moment. I am not only with myself, but outside of myself, at one with my environment, if you will. This is true even if there is music singing in my ears.
I find that when that tightness comes, I am hurrying through the day not for me, not for the sensation of being alive as a whole, but always for someone else. Always. Perhaps it is a selfish sensation about which I write. It is the selfishness of wanting to be outside of oneself, methinks. For the press which others exert on one’s schedule destroys any beauty of the moments one passes throughout the day.
Solitary walks. Meditation.
