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Jenny about townPublished by Nitin_shah on 2008/1/12 (139 reads)Before I made my big move to Manhattan, I took a trip from where I was living, the casual, easy-going city of Seattle, all the way to the Big Apple, not to see The Producers on Broadway, roller blade swiftly through Central Park, study a Jackson Pollock exhibit at The Museum of Modern Art, or enjoy an evening of Handel at Carnegie Hall; I had traveled to Manhattan for, now brace yourself, a Zen meditation retreat. I know, not the typical itinerary one envisions when visiting the city that never sleeps; most people go to India or Indonesia for attunement to the divinity. But something must have worked, because several years later my boss in Manhattan said, while downing a spinach knish and reading The Daily Post, "You're so in the present moment darling! I love that about you! Little did she know, I was everywhere but the present moment. In my mind, the present moment was for people who had nothing to do with themselves. The last thing I wanted to do was be still. Being still was for Trappist monks who make Chimay beer on rainy afternoons. But nonetheless, even though I despised being in the present moment, I couldn't resist wanting to be there. One of my closest friends, Sonya, happens to be a Zen Buddhist. When I first discovered her inclination to breathe with other people, I admired her ability to sit still. Somehow she took my admiration as a desire to actually experiment along with her, and before I knew it, she had signed me up for one of those long, dreadful weekend retreats of sitting in silence for two days, eating macrobiotic food and waking up at 4 a.m. to the sound of a gong before bowing 108 times in front of a Buddha while chanting in Korean, or Tibetan, or Japanese. Damned if I know what language it was; 4 a.m. wasn't a time for thinking. Their point precisely. Anyway, all I remember from way back then was that my attempts to be in the present moment were rather unfruitful. While everyone was seated in lotus position, never moving a muscle, I twitched, scratched my face and exhaled in such a way that I sounded like I was bored to tears. I abandoned the task of focusing my mind on my breath by thinking about my lists: my grocery list, my shopping list, my work list, my things-I-need-to-do-as-soon-as-I-get-home list. I was the last person anyone in the meditation room wanted to be seated next to. My fidgety self challenged my fellow meditators. So finally, by my fifth retreat, while eating udon noodles, Sonya leaned over and whispered, "Maybe you should just ask for your money back." Yes, it's sad to think that I had to actually pay to find the present moment. But as luck would have it, since moving to Ithaca I believe I've made my way from the past and future into the present. It's had to do with coffee, cigarettes, Clint Eastwood and a bridge. I was strolling along Cascadilla Place with Russell, my Australian Shepherd, one early evening when I spotted this guy on the bridge; he looked like Clint Eastwood, smoking a Camel cigarette, drinking coffee. "Hey there fella," Clint said to Russell, who sniffed at his jeans. I watched him pet Russell. His hands were the kind of hands I like, large and sturdy. He was tall, maybe 6'3; his arms were strong. "What's your dog's name?" asked Clint. "Uh..." I had forgotten Russell's name. At least I didn't forget my own name, like I did that time when Ashton Kutcher walked into my office at FOX TV. "Nice evening isn't it?" asked Clint. "Yeah, nice evening," I replied. "Real nice," he said. "Yeah, real nice," I said. Jeez, what was I going to do, repeat everything he was saying? Clint leaned on the rail of the bridge. I've never been attracted to smokers, but there was something sexy about the way he inhaled and exhaled. I noticed his two-day stubble, the light blue of his eyes, the faint color of his eyebrows, his strong chin. My God, I was utterly mesmerized. And what's odd was that I didn't leave. I remained on the bridge, speechless with this rustic stranger. And what's more, he didn't say anything either, nothing like, "Listen lady, if you want a guarantee buy a toaster." No, I wasn't looking for guarantees, I was just looking, and by God what I was looking at was the present moment. As he sipped what smelled like Viennese-roast coffee, I inhaled deeply, maybe the first deep breath I'd taken since leaving the Big Apple. I leaned over the rail with him, and as we watched the opalescent water rush below us I had an epiphany. All those long, dreadful meditation retreats I had forced myself to go on finally started to make sense. Most of the time, my mind had been like the current rushing below us, but in that moment on the bridge, that very present moment, my mind was as still as the rock and the stream bed below me; any thoughts I had were irrelevant; it was all water under the bridge. I pondered that realization again recently while entering the New Year with my new boyfriend, who stirred maquis-flavored honey into his organic green tea while on a break during our first meditation retreat together. ©Ithaca Times 2008 By: Jenny
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