I used to be a walker. Walking, striding, hiking, climbing, ambling, meandering, strolling, bush-bashing. The ancient art of propelling oneself forwards with balance, legs, breath and heart. Streets, bush, beach, uphill, down, nearby and remote, off track and on. It was an integral part of being me. For work, joy, health, commute, fun, exploration, stress-relief and a simple bodily necessity. Moving my body, circulating my blood, aerating my lungs. Feeling alive, feeling free, and in touch with the wild nature of my body and the world beneath my feet.
But I can’t do that anymore. An invisible, mysterious, chronic illness landed upon me nearly four years ago, and has curtailed my energy budget to a one-figured percentage of my previous allowance. So now, in its place, I am a sitter. Meditation, you may call it. At least, attempted.
I’m not as good at sitting as I was at walking. I always wanted to walk, was compelled to, was whining and biting at my leash in caged frustration when kept inside for a day. I never had to force myself to go for walks, as I do with my daily sitting, for which I must exercise strict self-discipline.
I’m much better at sitting outside, where I can attempt to balance my attention on the sounds of nature, birds, waves and wind, and the feel of fresh air blowing across my face. But unlike walking, which is an entirely normal thing to do in public, sitting can be weird. It is a private practice, and people often apologize when they pass by for disturbing me. I try to find nooks and crannies out of the way, although it’s sometimes not easy due to my limited mobility. I wear sunglasses and a broad brimmed hat to hide my closed eyes. I am a stealth meditator. I don’t position my hands in any stereotypical meditation mudras, as I’d feel too embarrassed, like a “spiritual wannabe” or mindless follower of those leading the “mindfulness” trend on the internet: toned, white, young, “#blessed” yoga ladies. Sitting outdoors can be cold, so I take plenty of jumpers with me, and my foam sleeping mat. Strangers sometimes ask if I’m going camping, which I think is a funny question, because my bag is just a daypack, and I’m usually somewhere relatively suburban. “No, it’s just for sitting on”, I say. Sitting! How strange that sitting is such a odd thing to do nowadays, at least when it’s not in front of a screen.
Half an hour a day is my rule. I can take forever to get settled, I get terrible pins and needles and I check the timer constantly. But if I go a day without I miss it. My body and mind are more tightly knotted and misaligned. After I sit for a while, with a meditative intention, my shoulders drop and my jaw tension loosens. I pay intermittent attention to my breath - the windy, rhythmic coolness in my nostrils, and my belly and lungs expanding. I feel pleasure in the breeze against closed eyelids and the break from staring at text. It gives a chance for my thoughts to slowly settle, like silt in the water column, and allows a feeling of spaciousness rather than constriction and imprisonment. I can feel a bit more alive, even without the vigor of exercise. Pausing to be properly still in our beautiful world I notice it more deeply and wondrously. I can become enveloped in the sound of the wind in the trees or the waves breaking on the shore, notice the texture of rock under my feet, the patterns of light on water, and the grace of common gulls, wheeling on high air currents. Loneliness can dissipate. I can let go of comparisons, frustrations and sadnesses, even if just for small moments. Sometimes I discover myself in a moment of peace and uplift and I’m inspired and think “I’m going to do this twice a day” or “I’ll sign up for one of those ten day meditation courses!”. But the next moment the discomfort returns, and I think “ten days of sitting, for ten hours a day! Ugh, no thanks!”
So I’m very imperfect at it, I procrastinate doing it every day, and I am much more likely to be sitting there thinking “I can’t feel my right foot anymore, how long has it been?” than zenned out and receiving insights from my Higher Self. My most ardent personal desire is still to be able to use my body freely again, like I used to. But for now, sitting is my daily link to sanity and peace, and the main practice that helps me cope with life in the invisible prison. I am grateful for this opportunity to practice. I am grateful that I can currently practice, as for a while I was so sick that I couldn’t sit upright for very long, let alone drive a car to take myself to nearby outdoor places. And I’m grateful for living in this small city, where some accessible, beautiful, semi-wild sit-spots still exist.
