Faith tells me there is a God. But I need sensorial proof. I want to see, hear and feel Him. (I suppose it’s okay if I don’t smell Him – but anyway). I’ve read several books lately that describe spiritual revelations; visions, out of body experiences, bright, pulsing lights heating up the spine creating a roadway to divinity. The authors were able to reach a heightened awareness of God by practicing yoga in Ashrams, taking long walks through beautiful foreign cities, visiting museums and ancient cathedrals and meditating for hours. These well-written stories have propelled me on my own spiritual journey of finding inner peace and hopefully bringing me eye to eye with God.
Unfortunately, being a mom of two young children with limited time and resources, for now there will be no trips to India, visits to Chartres Cathedral or all-day meditations sitting criss-cross applesauce on a mountain top. My journey is contained to JJ’s yoga class at the Y, early morning jogs around Lost Creek and short bursts of meditation wherever I manage to find myself alone. But I’m determined to see God as the authors did, so these avenues, however menial, will have to do.
I begin my quest for oneness with God by taking a yoga class. With intense focus on breathing, stretching, mind/body awareness and balance, I was sure to have a revelation. It starts out well. My body is strong, and the quiet music and soft lighting allow my mind to settle into a calm state. That is, until I catch a glimpse of my butt in the mirror. The extremely awkward Bound Warrior pose reveals my hiney at a very unattractive angle.
Strike One.
I try to rid my psyche of this self-defeating negative body image and resume my Pranayama breathing. However, this is hard to do when you are trying NOT to inhale toxic fumes drifting over from your gaseous neighbor.
Strike Two.
We finally reach the relaxation portion of class. The instructor tells us to lie on our sides and get nice and comfy. In a soothing voice, she advises us that whenever we feel stressed or anxious, we should get into this very position until we reach a relaxed state.
Strike Three, and I’m out!
I manage to stay quiet, but my entire body shakes and tears fill my eyes from holding in the laughter. Seriously? I picture my husband coming home from work finding me in the fetal position on the kitchen floor, dinner half cooked and the kids running circles around me. “But this is what my yoga instructor told me to do!”
God, where are you?
My next attempt at making a connection with divinity was early one Saturday morning. I woke up before anyone in the house, the sun just beginning to makes its appearance. Normally, I would try to go back to sleep, but this time I decided to take advantage of the quietness. I lay in the Corpse pose (they really need to rename this), flat on my back, palms facing up. Concentrating on my breathing, I try to clear my mind. From what I understand, pushing aside superficial thoughts, worries, guilt, etc, will open up the recesses of your mind allowing God to reveal Himself and speak to you. So when things like “we need pull ups and milk,” “would navy blue walls be too dark in the hallway?” and “if I don’t clean the bonus room today, I may possibly lose one of the kids in there,” pop into my head, I push them out. But they keep coming back! One after the other. I begin to think that it is impossible to NOT think. I keep trying, however, until finally I realize I have sung the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies in its entirety, TWICE. I give up!
God, where are you?
Clinging to the hope that this meditation thing could work, I realize there may be something to how you do it; sitting somewhere peaceful in the lotus position. I grab a blanket from the closet and head to the back porch. It overlooks the water and is abundant in birds, squirrels, ducks and other wildlife, certainly very peaceful. Pushing the couch and table out of the way, I sit on the blanket facing the serene landscape. With Ford taking a nap and Alice glued to the latest episode of “Good Luck, Charlie,” I hope to have ample time to calm my mind and open my soul to the eyes of God.
Perched on my sit bones, trying not to slouch, breathing deeply. Inhale… exhale… inhale…
Whack, whack, whack – it’s like a slap on the forehead as the A/C unit winds itself up prompting me to worry about it breaking down, AGAIN.
I shake it off. Inhale… exhale… inhale…
Creeeeeek, the porch door opens. “Mama, why are you sitting on a Christmas blanket?”
“I just thought it’d be fun.”
“Oh. Can I have a popsicle?”
“Sure.”
I try to squash the guilt I feel over letting her have even more sugar and get back to breathing. But it isn’t working. I could add a mantra to my meditation. However, I’m not sure what time Cliff will be back from riding his bike. If he finds me sitting on a fleece Christmas blanket in July on the floor in front of perfectly good furniture saying “Ommmm,” I am certain he will speed dial the nice men in white coats to come get me.
So I try breathing again. Inhale… exhale… inhale…
And there goes the creeking door again. I don’t even open my eyes, trying to ignore the patter of tiny feet moving toward me.
“Mama?” He’s so close to my face I can smell his nap breath, musty and sweet at the same time. I exhale a sigh of resignation and open my eyes.
God, where are you?
Sticky baby boy hands on his knees, peanut butter smeared on his cheek, the perpetual bruise on his forehead, peering in anticipation at me with those beautiful cornflower blue eyes.
I smile.
Oh, there you are!
