Surrendering, Nutella, and Looking Like a Deranged Squirrel

Tonight's meditation was an online chat with Guru Sri Shambhavananda. We all clustered together in a bedroom-sized office and watched a YouTube-esque chat with the guru. From the outside, it seems a little bit like staring at your computer screen, waiting for your boyfriend to instant message you back. It's that same kind of thrill when you get a response. Except better, because a Guru can't break up on you, or cheat on you, or bring you weird singing cards on Valentine's Day.

Okay, so a Guru is nothing like a boyfriend. Forget that analogy.

Surrendering, as Sri Shambhavananda described it, is not analogous to giving up. It is neither accepting nor rejecting. It's a little bit like being in a museum; you see the work in front of you, observe the scene in the painting, then move on, neither thinking about the work you just saw, nor the work you are about to see.

Hopefully it's a little less crazy than Van Gogh's "Starry Night."

  I've got a bit of a deal with surrendering. Instinctual thinking is not my forte. But one of the main ways that you can surrender is by working. Then working some more. Than adding some work on top of that. If you have a task at hand, you're giving your mind a whole load to handle. No more "what-if's" or "why did I?"s. When you're picking up rocks out of a garden, you're picking up rocks. When you're cleaning a lodge (as I shall be for a month--perhaps I should've perfected my household cleaning skills before arriving), you're cleaning a lodge.

As it turns out, some of the greatest distractions and epitomes and thoughts about cheese come up during this meditative practice. I've gotten book ideas, dance choreography, and freakouts all in the course of ten minutes of sweeping.

But, you just keep working. Learning how to ride a bike didn't take a day (I had dozens of bruises and scrapes that looked like Texas to prove it). Neither does peace of mind.

In fact, if you're like me, your first day of meditation will be rather angry. Your hips will not be used to this constant sitting. You'll end up looking like a deranged squirrel by the end of the practice. You'll see the other yogis sitting there calmly, not moving at all for an hour, and you will feel envious. Why can't you just sit still, for the love of Nutella? You will start wondering if you are the right sort to meditate.

As it turns out, if you can breathe, you can meditate. That looks great on paper. In practice, it's a little bit like "oh jeez, I have to like, build my resume, so I can be, y'know, employed."

But keeping busy has been a life saver for me. And not that mint kind. It's easy to resist such a busy schedule, but once you do it, it's like "oh, why was I so scared in the first place?"

Last year at Shoshoni, I avoided the dishes for three weeks (I'm good at avoiding things). When a friend finally called me out on it, it wasn't nearly so bad.

So, my first day this time around, I did the dishes. It was a little bit like marathon scrubbing, and I came out of it feeling like I'd just run ten miles, but it was over after an hour, and I didn't die. I did, however, slow down the entire cleaning process. Oops.

Last year seemed to be a trial run. I mean, I learned a lot and chanted and meditated and yoga-fied, but I had a more private room, and had simpler tasks. The first immersion program is a bit like eating a fro-yo sample at Kiwi. You like it, you decide you want to go back for more. Year 2 is much more an experience in communal living. You are looked at much less as a guest and more as part of the community. Which is both scary and liberating at the same time. Especially as I am the only immersion student this time, meaning I decide in the afternoons if the lodge is at an acceptable cleanliness level or not.

This coming from a girl who can go months without noticing a stain on her rug or that her room is in desperate need of vacuuming. Oh, my.


Namaste.