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I can see that he tries not to wrinkle his nose at the suggestion.
“Look, do fifteen minutes of mindfulness with me every day for a week. What is there to lose?”
“That doesn’t seem like enough.”
I pick the wok up and shake the vegetables, flicking them around in the pan to cook them evenly. “Okay, well then, do an hour of yoga, fifteen minutes of mindfulness, wake up at six a.m. every morning, go for a run, and switch to clean eating.”
Chris finally smiles. “Okay, fifteen minutes of mindfulness it is.”
I laugh. “Have dinner with me, and then we can do fifteen minutes of mindfulness.”
His smile is still there, and he slips into teasing me. “I guess it’s better than throwing chairs.”
“Cheaper, for sure. You may have just lost your security deposit on this place.”
15
Chris
Mindfulness isn’twhat I expected it to be. I thought it would be boring as fuck, but it’s hard.
Sara and I sit in her yoga studio, cross-legged on the ground. Or, at least, she sits cross-legged. When she sees how inflexible I am, my ankles barely crossed and my knees up in the air, she suggests I sit against the wall and on a towel to ‘elevate my hips.’
“You have really tight hip flexors,” she says. “Maybe you should be doing yoga.”
“Baby steps,” I grumble, and she flashes a smile at me.
“Fine, fine. Mindfulness and healthy foods are a good start.”
I nearly say that a few meals don’t mean I’m committing to healthy foods, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Okay. We’re going to do a body scan, and the point is to focus on your body and the things you are feeling and sensing. If your mind wanders, it’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it, but gently guide yourself back to the practice. We’ll start by paying attention to our breath.”
We sit there, eyes closed, as Sara narrates in a calming tone, taking deep breaths. My mind does wander a lot, especially to the lyrics I’m trying to work on, but she magically seems to know when it does and reminds me to return my attention to my breath. I fidget, too, popping knuckles and scratching itches, but aside from speaking, she doesn't move at all.
Next, we focus on different parts of our body from the top down, visualizing breathing into and out of that part.
“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
I do, and she smiles at me.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’m really bad at mindfulness.”
She laughs. “Like everything else, you’ll get better with practice.”
I bite my tongue against saying that the last thing I need to add to my to-do list is another thing to fail at; I’m already failing the band.
When we leave the studio together, Sara turns off the lights and closes the door behind her. She retreats to her room, and I sit down to try to write more. I don’t feel different. Nothing changes, really, the words are still crap, but I keep trying.
The next day, when I get up and walk into the kitchen in the early afternoon, there’s a note on the fridge.
Try something different today . . . like this sandwich.
There’s a plate in the fridge with a colorful sandwich on it, thick with green, red, and yellow. I eat it for my breakfast with some coffee and have a one-man jam session in the studio until dinner, when I eat with Sara, and we do mindfulness again.
And this becomes our routine.
