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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

tracing hairs, muscles, veins: sitting still during visiting hours

Late June, my horse was injured pretty badly. Well, it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, but infection set in and the damaged tendon started to adhere, and long story short, he's been in and out of the equine hospital for the past 6 weeks or so and tolerating pretty aggressive treatments when he's been lucky enough to be home. It's been rough, and I haven't been able to enjoy what for me is the most effective stress reliever out there - riding my horse - while going through this relatively stressful time. But I got something else out of it, something I really appreciated the other day while I was visiting him at the hospital, sitting in silence in his stall, watching his lips as he sifted through straw for his endless supply of fragrant green hay, admiring the sheen of his coat and the delicate, ever present veins beneath his thin thoroughbred skin: my mind was quiet, in tune, present.




In this sometimes overwhelming American culture in which I live, busyness is something that is expected, lauded, admired. "I've been busy" has become a standard response to "How have you been?" It's something I find myself saying, even if I'm not all that busy, because to be anything else could be mistaken for being [insert undesirable characteristic here].

As I've been setting out on this new path of mine over the past several months - stepping away from research and academia, trying my hand at freelance writing, preparing to head to India for Yoga Teacher Training - I've found that a routine, almost daily yoga practice helps me retain the focus to work without any hard deadlines and to manage the stress associated with personal issues, such as my horse's injury. But I've also begun to seek out the quiet this practice offers. It's so un-American, so unfamiliar and unnerving, and it's definitely not easy. During a meditation the other morning, the instructor challenged us to observe how long it took us before we lost focus on the breath moving in and out of our nostrils, to consider the implications of the fact that, for most of us, attention didn't stay fixed but wandered instead to the day's tasks, to yesterday's stresses, to life's goals. And this particular yoga instructor likes to refer to this relentless tendency to drift away from right now as an addiction to the busyness of our minds, of our lives. And while as a drug researcher I have all kinds of issues with the concept of addiction, in this particular brain-limited, metaphorical sense, I think it rings quite true. I like that busyness. There is comfort in it. Plus, it's a habit so ingrained, I almost don't know what to do in its absence.

So, I've been trying, throughout my days, off my mat, to consciously observe moments, to be present. And the other day, in Reed's stall, I did just that. Not perfectly, but glowingly. And I carried the joy of fully being there, in shared silence with an animal for whom the present is the primary place to be, for the rest of the day. So that when I left his side and returned home, I smelled the nutty smell that is the top of my dog's head, I listened to the slight burning in my eyes from too many hours spent reading and writing electronically, I savored the bright fruits that made up so many of that day's meals. I attempted to just be.

Then, last night, I was reading this tongue-in-cheek article about the many things foreigners find frustrating (and endearing?) about Americans, and of course one stood out to me: "You live to work. Too bad your life sucks." This certainly doesn't apply to all of us, and the author doesn't claim that it does, but it's become enough of a cultural norm that many of us risk missing our lives in their entireties as we chase something of much more arbitrary value.

I'm aware that my observations and thoughts on this matter are by no means novel and I have certainly not abandoned my compulsion toward busyness, toward work with "value", toward being defined by my career (or lack of it). What I did do that I hope pushes me toward a bit more balance was stop, sit still, and carefully, lovingly, trace exactly what was in front of me.