Shut Up, Mind

My meditation sessions have been, at best, an exercise in futility. Sticky from the day's heat, uncomfortable from sitting on the floor, I am usually more than a little bit cranky and craving a shower, and I tend to lie there, ignoring Geetha's question for the day, pondering the beyond vapid: If I had to sleep with someone in this room, who would it be? I really like Lynn's kurta, I wonder where she got it? Is that another mosquito bite on my ankle, or is an ant crawling up my pant leg? Would my hair look weird if I got three or four inches cut off? When does the new Death Cab for Cutie record come out?

All of this occurs against a backdrop of city noise (which I quite like, because it makes you apply concentration to the craziness of modern life, instead of meditating only in hillside monasteries without electricity) that, on Friday evening, involved a cell phone playing that heinous Celine Dion "Titanic" song (could there be a worse ringtone?), a parade or procession involving chanting and a steady drumbeat plus the unending cacophony of rickshaw horns.

After our pranayama (breathing practice), Geetha asked, "What did you leave behind to come to India? Why are you here? Was it svadharma--or was it your senses?" After mentally kicking myself to stop envisioning dinner and a shower, I started thinking about the old Reese's peanut butter cups commercials. Remember, where the two people walk into each other and the whole "You put my peanut butter on my chocolate! You put your chocolate in my peanut butter!" throwdown ensues, but then they realize fate has brought them together and they've created this fantastic new candy? Okay. Well, I am constantly waiting for my chocolate and peanut butter to unite (ew, not like that); I never feel 100% sure about what I'm doing. I need signs, I need reassurance from the universe. I need direction. More now than ever--should I go back to New York? What should I do there? Do I want to be there?

Deciding to come to India was, in part, an attempt to get closer to the Reese's moment. Has it happened yet? Of course not. Will it? I guess I don't know. But using my meditation a little more productively--instead internally whining about how the orange carpets we all sit on leave a Muppet-like layer of orange fuzz on my pants--left me feeling refreshed instead of weakened as I walked out and into the night.