Last summer I meditated. A lot. I’m still doing it from time to time. Who knew that just sitting there could transform you inside out and back again. Whatever that is inside me, it’s still vibrating.
I was brought up with baby boomer parents. Quelle surprise, given my date of birth. They’re somewhat no-nonsense baby boomers, though. The type for whom the 60s passed by in a whirl of cups of tea and TV. Tea and TV it’s still to be. Not for them delving anywhere below the surface of TV and morals. They’re just ‘normal’. Normal for them. That normal seems to be hard-wired into me now too, as some kind of would-be guide that goads me into guilt for not following.
Yet they produce me. Me who walked to primary school wondering what the point is if we’re just all spinning on a rock in space? Me who watched some programme about consciousness when I was 16 that my mum told me was for ‘unstable people’. It must have been OK though. It was on Channel 4 and you could send off for a factsheet.
Me who meditates.
I used to meditate intellectually. I can do that with no discipline whatsoever. Then I started meditating wholly. Bodily. Spiritually. I vibrated and I buzzed and I felt colours. I became alive.
A few months later I fell in love with life and now I think I’ve fallen in love with a person.
How do you know?
I just have to trust.