Tonight I did a little yoga, cat-cow, a few vinyasas, pigeon, a spinal twist.
Then I lit two candles on my little altar, bowed to my zafu, sat down, set the timer, and got into meditatin’ position–half lotus with right leg on top tonight, sit bones grounded on zafu, pelvis level, spine arising from pelvis, head tipped slightly forward, tip of tongue on palate, eyes closed, right hand lying in left hand, thumb tips touching. Aaaaannnnndddd…breathe.
I’m getting more formal about this practice. For years, I just set the timer and sat. Now, bowing to my zafu is nice. No matter how I feel about doing it at any given time, sitting on that zafu is the real teacher. Not the altar, not the bust of Kwan Yin on it, or the candles, or the mala beads. Sitting is the buddha.
Sometimes I really hate it, especially when it’s late and I’ve forgotten to sit, and I remember just when I’m thinking of going to bed, “Oh, I haven’t meditated yet, and I made this crazy vow to sit for 30 minutes every day. What was I thinking?”
And then I just go ahead and do it, dragging my resentment to the zafu with me.
Inevitably, whatever emotion I’m carrying eventually dissipates. I experience moments of clean, clear, sparkling emptiness.
And then when the timer goes off, I do a seated bow. Then I unwind my legs and make my feet like windshield wipers and move my spine.
Then I get up and face the zafu and bow again.