Thoughts of a (Failed) Meditation

Thoughts of a (Failed) Meditation

Okay. Here we go. Diffuser on. Relaxing focus music on with something about oceans in the title. Soft leggings. Cool air from the fan. Dim room. We got this. Let’s go.

Am I sitting equally on my sit bones? Are my shoulders back but not near my ears? Is my neck neutral but not too neutral? I can feel my earrings. Are you supposed to feel your earrings? Now I’m aware of my bracelets. Oh, because I’m moving. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Sit. Still. Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Oh, exhale, too.

Here comes a thought. Let it pass. Here comes a thought. Let it pass. Let it pass. Let it pass. If all you’re think is, “let it pass,” are you really meditating? Probably not. Or maybe. Maybe this is some form of enlightenment. Maybe I need to let this shit pass. Let it go. Let it go.

Oh, I’m slouching.

I’m aware of my spine. Should you ever be aware of your spine? Do I need to work through my back injury emotions again? Or do I just need to sit straighter. No, that’s too straight. Can you sit too straight? Why can’t I even sit right?

I’m the worst meditator.

No, there is no best or worst meditator. Stop that.

I think I’m better at prayer. But prayer doesn’t really make sense either. What is prayer really? It feels selfish a lot. But isn’t meditation selfish? Like, give me all the peace, universe! Whereas prayer feels like, give me all the peace, God. One or the other. I do it wrong.

There is no wrong, is no right. Breathe in that Sandalwood. It’s expensive; breathe it ALL in.

Meditation is not about money. Unless we’re mediating about money. But we’re not. Are we? What is money?

Breathe. Exhale. Breathe. Exhale. Breathe. Exhale.

Should I have some gin? Probably shouldn’t drink and meditate. Or should I? Breathe the Sandalwood, Jenna.

I wonder what [insert every friend I know, online and off] is doing now. Focus on me. That feels selfish. What am I supposed to be focusing on right now? Why did I start this meditation?

I can hear the dog breathing.

I fully and unconditionally accept and love myself.

No I don’t. What a load of crap.

Oh wait. I’m supposed to say that until I believe it, right? Well, that’s never going to happen. I can list off approximately eleventy billion things I don’t love an accept about myself. Number one being how unbelievably awful I am at mediating. Or praying. Or parenting. Or wife-ing. Or friend-ing. Or anything-ing. Good God, I’m the worst.

Or Good Buddha. Or Good John Wayne. Doesn’t matter.

I’m really sad I’m not going to the ocean this year. I miss my boys. I miss my daughter. I miss my husband. I miss my dog. Oh, she’s right there. I miss people who I just saw. I miss feeling peace. Did I ever feel peace? What does peace really feel like? Can we ever achieve it personally, let alone globally?

Why do people shoot each other?

Oh my God. Orlando. Why? Why. Fuck. This is just too much. Why do we have so much hatred in our society?

And fuck Trump while we’re at it.

I need some new leggings. Or maxi skirts. Or shirts. Oh wait, want less, do more.

I really do a lot already. Maybe too much. Maybe I need to do less. Maybe I need to set boundaries. I’m terrible at boundaries. Like I’m terrible at meditating. Or prayer. Or breathing.

Breathe. Exhale.

I want arms like Michelle Obama. Be accepting of what I have now, of who I am now. But I’d also be accepting of myself with some totally ripped ass arms. But I hate push-ups. And weights. And really anything to do with my arms. Can you contour arms? I’ll just wear sleeves.

This is totally an unacceptable thought process while meditating.

Do you think Michelle Obama thinks about her arms while meditating? Do you think Michelle Obama thinks about me while meditating? What does Michelle Obama think about while meditating? Probably how much she hates Trump.

No hate. No hate. No hate. That’s how we got to Orlando in the first place.

God, I miss my daughter.

Breathe. Exhale.

My abs hurt. Why am I aware of my femurs? Exercising is literally the worst. Or Trump is. Either or.

Breathe. Exhale.

Accept. Let go.

The dog is breathing in my ear.

Breathe. Exhale.

Accept. Let go. Let thoughts pass.

I’m going to be tired tomorrow.

Or today. You know. Since it’s two o’clock. In the morning.

Breathe. Exhale.

Do you think my husband really loves me?

Breathe. Exhale.

Probably.

Breathe. Exhale.

What should I wear tomorrow?

Breathe. Exhale.

Are the cicadas almost gone? I kind of feel almost sad about it. I mean they waited 17 years to do their thing and now they’re almost done with their life’s goal in less than six weeks. They sure did eat the hell out of my Weeping Cherry tree. Assholes.

Breathe. Exhale.

Maybe my friend will have a baby tomorrow. Today. Probably. We’re going to the funeral home, so a new life needs to come into the world. Lightning crashes and all that jazz.

I hope lightning doesn’t hit the house again.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Oh wait. Is this what meditating is?

Probably not if you have to ask, right?

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

The dog just sat on my lap.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Tomorrow is a new day. Or today is. I should really go to bed.

Breathe. Exhale.

Why don’t people know the difference between breath and breathe? Don’t be a linguistic asshole, Jenna.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

I miss my daughter.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

Breathe. Exhale.

 

Groopdealz Great Sales! data-recalc-dims=

An Evolution

An Evolution

If you want to get better at talking about adoption, your role as a birth mother, and your family as a whole, start a business with your daughter’s mom. Your hand is kind of forced.

But really, it’s been good. And I’m not even talking about the business.

I used to play my birth mother card close to my chest in real life. I didn’t tell people I met about my daughter right away. I waited to feel people out, to create a sense of trust, and then I laid it gently in their lap. It usually went really well. I only occasionally got my heart slammed in the car door by people with small minds.

I don’t really have that option much anymore. Since Dee and I run the business together, I’m asked questions about why my business partner lives in Philadelphia. I’m also asked how I got into selling leggings, and the answer is that my daughter and her mom came to visit and I said, “Feel my legs.”

No, really.

I tell the story without batting an eyelash. Other people? Well, they sometimes bat eyelashes. It’s kind of funny watching them wrap their heads around what I just said. I’m actually finding great amusement in the process. Most people let it drop and don’t poke or prod further. Most of them want to know more, but simply won’t ask.

I’m an open book though. Even more than I used to be. But only in person. Online, well, things have changed.

Face to face, people want to know the basis of our story. My closest friends ask the deeper questions, know the harder parts of our story as it exists right now. But the rest of the people just want to know how all of this came to be. At a party last week, the hostess came outside afterward and asked me a series of normal, to-be-expected questions about my pregnancy, placement, and our open adoption. She said once, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” I want to. I want people to see my family as valid, valued, and, yes, even normal. So I answer. I talk. I put it out there when I’m not even necessarily asked. It’s a part of my story.

But online? You see, some people online don’t care about the basics. There’s something happening online in the blogosphere, specifically within niche families, in which strangers think they have a right to all the details. If I withhold something, for whatever the reason, people accuse me of only sharing part of the story.

Guess what? I’ve always only shared parts of the story. Ask any writer if they tell the whole story, and they’ll say no. Those who tell you that they do are probably lying. The whole story is boring. Do you really need to know that during a visit we sometimes just sit around and watch Catfish or that we eat waffles and cereal for breakfast? No. Neither do you need to know the parts of the story that are not mine to tell. Neither do you need to know the parts of my story that are mine but that either don’t quite make sense yet or are too triggering for me to address.

When it comes to normal, everyday parenting of my sons, I don’t tell it all here either. They kind of dictate what’s okay to share, what they might not want me to write in this space. I adhere to their rules, their requests. They’re human beings with stories to tell too. Our stories intersect, and every day I learn more about what’s mine and what’s theirs. Every day we grow together.

All of this is to say: I really enjoy being more open about my daughter. I talk about her at will. Those people who balk at our story for their own personal reasons are not my concern. My concern rests with my daughter, her family, my sons, our family, and making sure everyone involved knows they are respected and loved.

My daughter and her mom will be here next week. I’m really excited about it. So are the boys. So is my husband. The dog is probably the most excited, but this is to be expected. I’ve told all my friends and their mothers, who are also often my friends. While I once used to feel anxious about their visits because I “might have to explain things,” I now get excited to tell everyone, “She’s here. She’s really here.”