Pine Sol

On the move. I arrived late last night, as the 16th became the 17th. It was a long ride but thanks to a wonder drug called caffeine, the 3.5 hours flew by. As someone who never drinks coffee or other caffeinated beverages, it was an eye opener. The rush as it hit my blood was really something. Suddenly all the world felt mine for the taking. I wanted to scream WOOOOO at the top of my lungs. And I did. Speeding madly in and out of traffic, barreling over black asphalt in the dark while my eyes darted from the rearview to the road and side to side, I found my chemically enhanced cognition exhilarating. I contemplated filing my taxes on my phone while I drove, or maybe tweezing my eyebrows. The feeling of insusceptibility to sleep was intoxicating and I wondered what I would do with all these newfound hours. Certainly I wouldn't sleep for at least another 3 days. I fantasized about the astrophotography to be had upon arriving at Yosemite, and then about the sunrise. I fantasized about getting pulled over by a cop and talking my way out of it, about telling him how I'd just done my taxes. A previous life where I was a race car driver flashed fully before my eyes. How does one secure sponsorship from Monster energy drinks? After googling directions to a Michael's Arts & Crafts store, and listening to a Lynda podcast on graphic design at 4x speed, I began drafting up a decal to adhere to the side of my rental car.

Soon it felt as though multiple millennia had come to pass. Eons had dawned and died. Intricate histories were drawn onto the walls of my mind. I checked the clock and it had only been 15 minutes. Finding myself craving communication, I called and chatted with Holly for half an hour. I talked nonstop, and in exquisite detail, about anything and everything that crossed my mind. Coffee is a diuretic, they say. She told me I was up. I know, I told her, and I'm never coming down. I sang karaoke to Bush's classic 90's single, Comedown, and remembered Holly was still on the phone. She went to sleep, and I sang Sweet Dreams.

After some rigorous, pre-sleep calisthenics, I brushed my teeth and got into bed. After a few minutes I realized the fridge in the hotel room was noisy. I got up and inspected the snugness of the door and its hinges, the shoddy quality of its latching mechanism. Soon I'd taken the fridge out from under its home and unplugged it. I rummaged around a toolshed in the parking lot looking for a screwdriver and realized I wasn't wearing a shirt. Back in the hotel room, armed with a mop, cleaning detergent and a wet rag, I took to spiffing up the bathroom. In the mirror I could have sworn I saw the gleam of Mr. Clean's head. It hurt my eyes at first and I winced as I brought my hand to cover them. I stood dumbfounded looking out the bathroom window as his bald, glowing head transformed into a brilliant ball of sunshine making its way over misty mountains.

They smelled like Pine Sol.

The Great Gaspy

I just mediated, deeply. It's something I've been doing more of lately and, for some reason, it comes naturally to me. When I was a kid I was asthmatic. My mother would have to come to my elementary school every day during lunch with a portable nebulizer machine which would help me breathe. The machine was the size of a small cooler, and was an off-white beige color. We'd do this in an empty classroom. She'd take the translucent mask and fasten it to my face. A long, transparent hose connected to the bottom of the mask and then to the machine, where it would screw on top of a cotton white filter. The machine, once it was plugged in, would begin to hum as it vaporized a bronchodilator called albuterol, aerosolizing it so that it could be inhaled into my lungs, relaxing the constricted muscles around my airway. I would take long, soothing breaths, in, and out. This would go on for a long while, until all the medication was gone. I can still remember the way it smelled, like a sweet rubbing alcohol. I suspect this practice of focusing on my breath, especially as a child, must have primed me for adult meditation.

Flash forward to present day. Now, most people would probably find it difficult to sit idle for ten minutes, just breathing, letting their mind empty, not grasping. So, I started with twenty. The speed at which time passes during meditation is uncanny - simultaneously fast and slow. But the last few times, something strange has happened. My breath, about midway through the practice, becomes unsteady, almost gaspy, usually on the exhale. The shaking breath resolves itself after a second or two and then vanishes for an uncertain time, only to flutter back in and then out again. It seemed like it was just my body relaxing, knocking loose tension in my chest. But while speaking about it to James, an avid meditator, certified gypsy and world-renowned shamanic guru, he told me the phenomenon has a name and that I should try gently to explore it the next time it happens. So, today I surrendered to the shaking breath. I tried to listen to what it was telling me. It transported me back to a memory I had all but forgotten, from when I was a child. I'd been in some kind of argument with my father, I think. What surfaced was pain, hopelessness, fierce anger and despairing loneliness. Tears started as I remembered locking myself in my room and slamming the door. With balled fists and clenched teeth I cried in anger while standing in the corner, weeping, with shaking breath. In this meditative state I literally relived the sensation in my body, completely, thoroughly, as though it'd been trapped inside the entire time. The sound of the timer going off frightened me. Those twenty minutes had blown by. I was in awe at the power of those emotions, how hypnotic they were, the way the body had unlocked a memory.

I'll have more to report on this tomorrow. I also want to write about the paradox of tolerance.