Meditation

Words are funny. Say the word “meditation” and you might picture a monk or a dedicated practitioner of an Eastern religion. You might picture robes and a serene background. You might hear “Ohmmmm.”

A lack of information often informs what we (think) we know about something. Stereotypes are the end product, but it takes time for a stereotype to build. Sometimes a word conjures a meaning or an image lined with meaning, and we lack the experience or sometimes even the words themselves to convey a new idea. It takes many people talking about something, naming it, describing it, doing it, to make an idea acceptable and accessible. Notice mental health in today’s world. People are more willing to talk about it (even athletes) and therefore people have the words and a structure in which they can talk about their own nebulous problems.

I was taught to pray. I was taught to pray to God the Father via Jesus. I was taught that I couldn’t talk to God if I had un-confessed sin in my heart. I was taught that God answered prayer, that answered prayer was a sign of one’s faithfulness, and that prayer was a duty. I was taught that formulaic prayers like the Our Father were wrong/legalistic; I was also taught so many other rules about prayer that despite the prayer’s content being up to the individual, there were still gates and dead ends and other obstacles to access the Almighty.

I used to pray. A lot. I would pray for an hour-and-a-half every night, reading through a list of everything I could think of. I thought it was my duty to pray for everyone I knew and everyone situation that I came across. The need was great, and so my effort needed to be greater.

All that prayer never got outside the ceiling. I don’t know or care if God ever heard. For me, it was conformity. I was doing what I was told to do. I brought no agency or will of my own to the situation. I did because I was afraid of the consequences of not. And so I stopped praying.

I miss prayer not like one misses a dead loved one but like the body misses food when it needs it. There’s something anemic about my life.

But I can’t pray. That ship has sailed. Prayer is sent out to God, and I don’t believe in God. I believe in something, but that’s another post. So what do I do?

Meditate.

I’m not interested in official meditation of any sort. Maybe somewhere down the road, but anything organized, even if it’s not religious per se, smacks of narrow-minded, blind obedience. Even if it’s not that in reality,  I perceive it like that.

And that’s what I like about the idea of meditation. It can be hijacked, but it doesn’t have to be. It can be simple. It can be one individual soul communing with itself, sending out tendrils and forays into the unknown. It can be just this, an opening to those things that nourish a soul. In my case, it’s opening to the possibility that nourishment exists.

This is an intro to an occasional series about the things I’m meditating on. Meditation for me is tied to writing. Writing for me is the easiest and most comfortable form of communication. But communication is the goal, and perhaps my writing/meditating can lead to improvement in other areas of communication.