Meditation for the Antsy

 

A field of flowers. An ocean of crystal blue. A sandy beach.

Nope couldn’t picture it, let alone, sit still for it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to get into meditation. Being still. Being present. Centering myself. And then, two minutes in, I’d remember I have to return a phone call or pick up cat litter. Wham-o, just like that, I’m out of my meditative state. So much for my still, present, centered self. So much for any trace of flowers, blue ocean, or being beachy.

As I’ve hopped along the bunny trail of de-stressing, detoxing, learning healthier life skills and keeping cancer at bay, I’ve taken stabs at this mindfulness stuff. Already praying since childhood, I thought, what’s the harm in adding meditation/visualization? It could be helpful.

However, most of these “guided meditations” I’ve been encouraged to try, again, focused on nature, and on some flute playing in a forest somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s pretty. But I found myself soon thinking about a weird piece of trivia from my past. I’d be asking myself a question like, “Did I have physical education class for first or second period when I was in the seventh grade?”

Over and over and over again, I’d start out with beautiful scenery and then devolve into remembering who was my math teacher when I was nine. After numerous attempts, it finally dawned on me to stop with the flowers, landscapes and mysterious flute playing and just skip right to whatever school memories I could entertain without trauma counseling.

No easy feat, by the way.

But I needed to stop fighting my mind when it wandered away from the pretty scenes. I had to channel it, instead, to those notorious school days.

I’m not talking about the bullying or the mean girls. That’s not helpful. I’m talking about something a bit more mundane, perfect for its meditative possibilities.

I’m a detail-oriented person. So, I first started to meditate on some of the details of my school building.

Originally built in the early 1900s and named after President McKinley, my high school had two major parts to it: the old and the new. The original old part of the school always struck me as being quite wooden with red painted walls throughout the small hallways.

Eventually, in the 1950s, because of the explosion of rural teenagers, they tacked on the newer addition. And, that part of the school struck me as being incredibly green and tiled. I don’t know. Maybe there was an unconscious desire to celebrate the complimentary color wheel or promote Christmas all school year long. Whatever the case, as a scurrying adolescent, I remember making hundreds of treks, zigzagging from red and wood to green and tiled classrooms, connected only by a bland library.

My first school meditation, beyond a building, focused on the class schedule from my senior year, mainly, the route it took small town, public school student me to get from class to class.

 

I remembered all of those treks, Mondays through Fridays, to and from seven periods of classes and classrooms. And, my senior year stood out the most. Maybe because it was equal parts “yay, I’m almost out of here” and “I’m soon going to be an adult; uh-oh.”

Regardless, focusing on that last year of high school, I visualized myself at the start of the day. Arriving at 7:45, I’d wind my way up two flights of green- tiled stairs, to greet the long expanse of the second floor, which housed lockers for grades ten through twelve on the left side, classrooms on the right. So, there I was, getting set for first period, French II, which was almost directly across from our lockers. Not much zig, not much zag.

After about fifty minutes of being called by my French class name and feeling like an ignorant American, the bell rang and I’d start my first really big zig zag of the day, from the new to the old part of the school: art class. I’d plow down the length of that long, green- tiled hallway, dodging my fellow adolescents, weaving through the library connector. I’d go down one flight of stairs, lined with red painted walls, through a dark wooden area which sported four major classrooms. My art class was in the room closest to the original old steps, exiting the school. I’d walk into the wood-centric space and proceed to draw and paint.

Art class was one of my favorites. The fifty minutes sped by and, before I knew it, I’d have to clean my brushes of acrylic paint, mentally prepare myself for my least favorite class, Business Math. I’d hightail it back to the edge of the old school, bordering on that connecting library.

This classroom was an odd mixture of early 1900s wood and not- quite- sure- why- they- decided- to- add- it, 1970s wood paneling. An arsonist’s dream come true, possibly? One lit match and poof! The whole thing goes up like a tinderbox!

I had a lot of those kinds of wishes as, for the next fifty minutes, time crawled. Did I mention how much I hate math? No? I hate math! Math hates me! It’s a mutual hatred society.

Okay, so the bell rings again, mercifully, and I skedaddled from the too-wooden math room, winding through a white tiled hallway, half a flight up from the library. I descend three small steps and again, look at the long, green hallway on the second floor, with one of three classrooms close to the end of it. I make my way to fourth period, Choir.

Located in the newer part of the school, not surprisingly, this mostly white, “soundproof” classroom was right next to the band room. As the choir began doing “Me-May-Ma-Moe-Moo” vocal warmups, we’d often have to compete with the sound of a tuba. Almost always, a tuba. I never actually saw the tuba.

Anyway, after a musical (?) fifty minutes, the bell rang, signaling feeding time for the animals. Lunch.

Do I go to the cafeteria, located on the first floor, in the old, red, wooden part of the school, to enjoy pizza burgers and whipped potatoes? Of course not! Senior, remember? Cafeteria lunches were something only seventh and maybe, a couple of eighth graders did, before they reached the age of reason.

But being a senior, top of the totem pole? Where did we convene? Remember that three-classroom cluster, comprised of the choir and the band rooms? Well, that one remaining room was heralded as the senior room. I remember we were the first class to enjoy such a privilege.

Not that it was much to exalt. A classroom, with scattered desks and chairs, including one beanbag chair (not sure how and why it got there). And, when we weren’t going off campus to a local restaurant or grocery store (or, for some, smoking, drinking, possibly getting pregnant in a sketchier part of the school property or parking lot), we’d herd into that space and feel ever so adult as we huddled in cliques and had disdain for one another. This would go on for about forty minutes and then, ding!

Fifth period has arrived: Senior Social.

How can I explain this class? Part sociology, part history, part “To Sir with Love”-themed, we- gotta- get- these- kids- ready- for- the- adult- world.

Huh. Ready for the adult world.

This was my one and only class held on the first floor. I’d take the two sets of steps and go downstairs in that green-tiled part of the school and camp outside of the classroom, three doors down. Eventually, our teacher would surface, unlock the room and, for the next fifty minutes, we’d learn all about current issues, sex education, birth order and how to do taxes. Eclectic.

Bell rings again, signaling my sixth period class: English. Another favorite, neck and neck with art. Up we go again, to green-tiled, second floor, three doors down and closest to the bathrooms. This classroom was especially green and white. I don’t know if this was intentional from those 1950s blueprints, but I must admit, all of that green did have a soothing effect on me. Not that I really needed it in this beloved class with my favorite teacher. And focusing on words. I loved words. Those fifty minutes also flew by until the next bell rang.

Where to now? Study hall, held in this same classroom, with the same favorite English teacher in charge of the motley crew. As motley as rural can be, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I loved seventh period study hall. I spent most of it, doing my homework, getting hall passes to finish some art project, wa-a-a-y in the older part of the school. And, because my favorite teacher was also my drama and speech coach, I spent time writing and reciting lines, essays and speeches.

This last period of the day was a great way to wind down. Some would even say meditative?

If you’ve hung in there with me all of this time, first, thank you for that.

And second, why am I taking this stroll down memory lane when it has nothing to do with you and your challenges, you may ask? Well, by virtue of taking these strolls, concentrating on various details of the rooms, the routes and everything else occupying my senses, I am, indeed, meditating. I’m actually doing it!

And that’s really the point of mediation: to concentrate, to do it, to focus on something that gets you out of your stressed head and transports you to another dimension. You may not choose to go with the high school dimension. But is there another time, place and set of details you can comb over? Call up as many exacting memories as you can. What does that look like for you? Go there. Be there. Forget about the flowers and the beach. Work what works for you.

Namaste. I bow to the light in that!

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse