In my sitting meditation, the first thing I do is remind myself that I am here.
I am not in the remnant of the dream that clings like the anchor line of a spiderweb.
I am not in the project that waits for me to eat breakfast.
I am not in the machinations of yesterday or those of a marriage or two ago.
I am here, in this bed, with grey light leaking around the edges of the closed window shade.
I am here.
I am grounded.
As I said this, I used to imagine something like a drill—like a unicorn’s horn—drilling from my butt into the earth. I don’t think that anymore. It’s too violent. It’s too one-sided.
Now I imagine roots growing from the base of my spine into the earth, and being welcomed and connected with earthen roots growing into me.
I am lifted.
With these words, I imagine roots growing from the top of my head into the sky, to some essential core of white light, and from that core, roots of light welcome me and connect with me.
I am protected.
With this, I imagine something like angel wings forming a container around me, making a soft but protective case, egg-shaped, and lined with my own velvet protective energy field.
Here is where this part of the meditation used to stop but it felt too isolated, so this got added:
I am connected.
In eighth-grade science class with Mr. Pickowicz, we learned about hydra.
I imagine my arms like colorful hydra light beams, reaching out to touch the colorful light beams of others.
I am here.
This second time I say these words, I feel different than the first time I said them. I feel better already, always.
Chewing the Cud of Good
Thankful for my health, which I so often take for granted.