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12:43 p.m. - Sunday, Dec. 30, 2012
Mission Mindfulness
I talked to myself on the couch for over an hour. Maybe it wasn't the most ethical thing to do. Maybe he deserved a phone call. Hm. Fuck him. I'm where I am. And that's the only place I can be. So it must be the right place. And I'll do with it what I can.

I doubt myself there. Question every move I make. Every word I speak. Because he always manages to point out why it's inauthentic or manipulative or controlling . . .all the while reassuring me that there are no judgments . . .no one gets to be wrong. Yeah, well. Apparently I get to be wrong.

It's the healthy choice.

The next healthy choice I make will be mindfulness. Because in the midst of all this intimacy-seeking, I lost the present. Got caught up in then . . .and when. But lost the now.

I call Bethlehem my place of rebirth. Have such deep attachment to it . . .feelings of wholeness. Feelings of love. But it wasn't just the rebirth. It was the mindfulness.

Every memory I have of that beautiful little city is sensory-based. The feeling of ivory under the fingertips . . .the smell of the old musty floorboards . . .the sound of the rain against the windowpane. The feeling of wind on my cheeks. Or sun. Or water from the creek rushing over my toes as I sat on the roots of the old trees. Trees the Moravians themselves once sat under.

I felt the vibrations of brass and the warmth of a burning candle. Hundreds of voices becoming one. "The darkness has not overcome it."

The smell of money, the sound of the coin-counting machine . . .the feeling of hundreds of bills swiftly moving from one hand to the other. The firm handshakes. The sweaty handshakes. The limp handshakes. The avoided handshakes. The heat rising to my cheeks . . .

The heart-shaped puddle on the sidewalk. The red leaves from the tree outside my window. The suburban smell of dinner and laundry. Kids on the swings.

That's what I miss. The now. Not what it was to me, not what it did for me. The being-ness. And to go back . . .means nothing.

I play words over and over and over in my head like a broken record. Filling some self-inflicted void. Until the next time I can get more words. To play over and over and over. Until the next time.

So enough. So now . . .What's now? Now is the cars from the highway. Now is the blue sky above the mountains. And the wind in the pine tree. Now is a dirty apartment that's been neglected for months while I was held captive in my own mind. Now is the cat sleeping on the old broken recliner I refuse to throw away. Now is time for a run. Now is time for the annual two-month fast. Now is not when my appointment is confirmed . . .not what I might say when . . .not a to-do list.

Now is now. Operation Now. Mission Mindfulness. And a huge part of caputuring those sensorial memories was the act of writing them down. So that's what I'll do.

I get to trust myself. Not him. Not anyone. Me.

 

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