What NOT To Do After Meditation.

The 21st century can be a bitch.

Even more so than the 20th century, the 21st has all sorts of media that can saturate your eyes, ears, and brain.  Even what you taste, touch and smell is synthesized.  Take for example the microwavable Indian food (which is my weakness) that can seduce two of your senses until you grow bored of the flavor and aroma.  Touch screens do away with those pesky keyboards, though many people of my generation opt for a peripheral keyboard to get the sensation of sitting in front of the electric typewriters we were trained to use in intermediate school.  Nonetheless, the power we have at our fingertips is manufactured.

So, what was I talking about?  Oh, yeah.  Meditation and the altered states of consciousness it provides.  One more digression and then I'll get to the heart of the matter.

Your favorite music alters your consciousness.  It either mellows you out or it charges you up.  An abrupt change of one state of consciousness to another by switching from one genre of music to another can ruin your mood or frame of mind.  For example, take a fairly recent event that happened to me.

I was listening to Jim Morrison's An American Prayer on vinyl.  Jim's smooth baritone voice, accompanied by his former bandmates in The Doors, put me in a contemplative mood.   Jim lulled me into the morning with verses along these lines:

Awake

Shake dreams from your hair

My pretty child, my sweet one.

Choose the day and choose the sign of your day

The day's divinity

First thing you see.

On the other hand, I dwelt on how backward some of his lyrics sounded in this day and age.  He called Native Americans "Indians?"  Is it even considered proper to call the native peoples "Native Americans?"  Eh, he was a product of his time, as I am a product of mine. 

My point is that he eased my senses, any anxieties drifted away.  Worries about errands, chores, medical appointments, deadlines, work, even death itself were immaterial.  I let An American Prayer massage out the stress and confusion firing around in my brain.

Death makes angels of us all

& gives us wings

where we had shoulders

smooth as raven's

claws.

An American Prayer came to its conclusion.  Slowly, gently, I rose to my feet and glided over to my combination record player / CD / FM / Bluetooth / lemon juicer / pancake batter mixer, and lifted the vinyl disc from the turntable.  I slipped it back into its sleeve, and reached for the power knob.

Unfortunately, the knob I was turning was the knob that changed which medium of the Swiss army knife entertainment system I wanted to hear.  I turned it to FM by accident and was bombarded by Van Halen's squawking cover of Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman."

Eddie Van Halen's screeching, effects inundated guitar, combined with David Lee Roth's alley cat yowling jolted me out of my calm, centered mind.  Confusion and agitation flooded back through the axons and dendrites of my brain.  My eyes bulged.  My teeth gritted against each other.  I found the power knob and turned off the combination vegetable puree / electric ham slicer machine.

Too late.

Instead of having the closing verses of An American Prayer drifting through my mind and body, I now had Van Halen's bastardized "Pretty Woman" as an ear worm.

I was pissed.

And I said aloud, "I hate Van Halen!  I fucking hate them!"

The rest of the day, I tried to force An American Prayer back into my head.  But that turned into yet another stressor.  In the grapple over my state of mind, Eddie Van Halen's teeth grindingly awful electric twanger defeated Jim Morrison's sensual crooning soundly.

So, yeah.  Meditation.

Like most 21st century schizoid men, I need an app to assist me in mediation.  My app of choice is Calm.  I've come to rely on it to ease out the din that assails me as I go about my daily routine.  Calm enables me to stride gently and boldly through the day through the discipline and mindfulness.  On the whole, Calm has enabled me to shrug off the stressors of every day with relative ease.  I open the day with meditation before the sun rises and close the day when the sun has set.  I have an app as a guru.  Welcome to the third millennium CE.

So, one night I'm listening to Calm in my dimly lit office.  Suze agreed to watch her shows on her iPad with audio buds.  My laptop is off and so is the LED desk lamp.  I sit cross legged on my Cosmic Carpet and follow the gentle instructions to close my eyes, to breathe, to be aware of the sounds from outside and acknowledge them without letting them take me out of your relaxed state.  I am indeed mindful of the purr of car motors and the hissing of tires on streets that were just coated with a drizzle of rain.  I am mindful of my breathing.  I am mindful of the tightness in my brow, temples, and teeth, which were now fading with each breath.  I let my mind slip into some unseen center.  Sensations flow in, through, and away from me.  I even lose track of the gentle prodding of the instructor.  I no longer need it.  I am at peace.

Eventually, my attention is drawn back to the instructor's voice.  "And as you slowly open your eyes, take another, slow, calming breath.  You can keep meditating if you like.  But for now, it was a pleasure working with you, and I hope to work with you again... tomorrow."

I let loose a sigh.  I slowly unfurl my legs and I roll to my side.  I ease up onto one foot, then two.  Slowly I bring my back erect vertebra by vertebra and I am part of homo sapiens sapiens again.  I gently kneel to pick up my smartphone upon which my Calm app is loaded.

And that's when everything... goes... fucking... WRONG.

I may have mentioned by addiction to YouTube in previous blog entries.  I may have told you how I press my thumb on the YouTube app reflexively as a struggling alcoholic may suddenly feel his appetite for a drink manifest itself.  Without thinking, I tap the YouTube app and suddenly...

WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!

I am jolted out of my balanced state by the yodel of some stupid ad for Hertz car rentals, and who should I see on the screen but Tom Brady, the face that anyone who is not a fan of the New England Patriots have taught themselves to hate.  He slips into one of the immaculately white electric battery powered Hertz rental cars and says, "Let's go."

WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!  Let's GO!

Frantically, I tap the exit icon on my smartphone to escape the clamor of that yodeling jingle, to escape the blather of the ad's voice over, and to escape the living embodiment of the irritating acronym, "The GOAT."

I set aside my phone, and draw in a deep breath.  I try to engage with the nighttime sounds outside.  I try to embrace the darkness of my room.  I try to take in the sound of Suze's gentle breathing from beyond my office's closed door.  I lie down on my Cosmic Carpet and try to take in the illustrated ripples of water with my night adjusted eyes...

WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!

Shut up.  I'm trying to take in some breath...

WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!

I'm trying to center my awareness.  I'm trying to exhale all the stresses and worries of the day...

WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!

FUCK!

I angrily pace out of my office.  Hating Hertz, Tom Brady and that WOO-oo-hoo-hoo! as much as I despise Eddie Van Halen and his shrieking electric monstrosity which is paired with David Lee Roth's thoughtless caterwauling.

Later that evening, in bed, I am finally able to banish WOO-oo-hoo-hoo! from my consciousness with a few purgative breaths and I drift to sleep.  I have some of my usual bizarre science fiction / fantasy landscape dreams without any sign of some demonic Hertz rental with a Baphomet faced Tom Brady barreling towards me bleating a dreadful WOO-oo-hoo-hoo!

Before sunrise, I ease out of bed and glide over to my office.  I am mindful of the dimmed lights.  I am mindful of my breathing.  I am mindful of the sparse passage of cars outside on the the street.  I am mindful of the soft fabric of my Cosmic Carpet under my toes.

Most importantly, when I switch on my smartphone, I am mindful to tap the Calm app icon and I do not allow my thumb to compulsively tap YouTube and subject myself to whatever nightmarish commercial jingle that may blurt through the tiny yet powerful speakers of my device.

So, is there a lesson, folks?

I guess so.

Our minds are encased in a delicate membrane that is assaulted on all sides of this relatively new information age.  My generation knew a world before social media, smartphones, and apps, just as the generation previous to ours knew a world without cable TV and VCRs.  The generation prior to the Boomers knew a world before television.  The generation before that, my Mom's generation, even thought the family radio was some bizarre new artifact.

Yet here we are now, and we act like we've never known a world that wasn't ensnared in this digital, microwave, satellite powered meta-neural network called modernity.

All I can say is:  Be mindful of your mind.  Be mindful of its health.  Be mindful of its happiness.  Be mindful that you may fumble along the way, but that you can gently rise to your feet and continue the journey to whatever goal you light out towards.

Most importantly, be mindful that your Calm app isn't right next to your YouTube app.

- JJB