SITTING in the lotus position, with incense burning and elevator music playing, I begin my "meditation." People have been advising me to try it for ages. That was when they thought I was just "stressed." (I was stressed, but at least that was better than feeling completely indifferent about life.)
"Thoughts will come into your mind. Don't worry. Accept those thoughts, don't try to get rid of them."
Perfect, that's what I'm doing. I drive away toxic emotions like pride, disillusion, jealousy, ingratitude, futility. I fill that space with humility, gratitude, understanding, consciousness, and grace.
I think I've been eating too much sugar, which is bad for your health and for the spiritual body.
I leave aside darkness and despair and invoke the forces of good and of light.
I remember every detail of my lunch with Jacob.
I chant a mantra along with the other pupils.
I wonder if my boss is right. Is Jacob being unfaithful to his wife? Is he being blackmailed?
The teacher asks us to imagine ourselves surrounded by an armor made of light.
"We should live each and every day with the certainty that this armor will protect us from danger, and then we will no longer be bound to the duality of existence. We have to find a middle path, where there is neither joy nor suffering, only profound peace."
I'm beginning to understand why I keep skipping my yoga classes. Duality of existence? A middle path? That sounds as unnatural as keeping my cholesterol level at seventy like my doctor is always telling me I should.
The image of the armor lasts only a few seconds before it's shattered into a thousand pieces and replaced by the absolute certainty that Jacob likes any pretty woman who comes anywhere near him. So why am I bothering with him at all?
The exercises continue. We change posture, and the teacher insists, as she does during every class, that we should try, at least for a few seconds, to "empty our minds."
Emptiness is precisely the thing I fear most and the thing that troubles me most. If she knew what she was asking ... But then who am I to judge a technique that has lasted for centuries?
What am I doing here?
I know: "De-stressing."
I WAKE up again in the middle of the night. I go to the children's bedrooms to see if everything is all right--it's a bit obsessive, but surely something all parents do now and then.
I go back to bed and lie staring up at the ceiling.
I don't have the strength to say what I do or don't want to do. Why don't I just give up yoga once and for all? Why don't I go to a psychiatrist and start taking those magic pills? Why can't I control myself and stop thinking about Jacob? After all, he never suggested he wanted anything more than someone to talk to about Saturn and the frustrations that all adults face sooner or later.
I can't stand myself any longer. My life is like a film endlessly repeating the same scene.
I took a few classes in psychology when I was studying journalism. In one of them, the professor--a very interesting man, both in class and in bed--said that all interviewees go through five stages: defensiveness, self-promotion, self-confidence, confession, and an attempt to put things right.
In my life, I've gone straight from self-confidence to confession. I'm starting to confess things to myself that would be best left unspoken.
For example: the world has stopped.
Not just my world, but the world of everyone around me. When we meet with friends, we always talk about the same things and the same people. The conversations seem new, but it's all just a waste of time and energy. We're trying to prove that life is still interesting.
Everyone is trying to control their own unhappiness. Not just Jacob and me, but probably my husband, too. Only he doesn't show it.
In my dangerous confessional state, these things are beginning to become much clearer. I don't feel alone. I'm surrounded by people with the same problems, all of whom are pretending that life is going on as normal. Me. My neighbor. Probably even my boss, as well, and the man sleeping by my side.
After a certain age, we put on a mask of confidence and certainty. In time, that mask gets stuck to our face and we can't remove it.
As children, we learn that if we cry we'll receive affection, that if we show we're sad, we'll be consoled. If we can't get what we want with a smile, then we can surely do so with our tears.
But we no longer cry, except in the bathroom when no one is listening. Nor do we smile at anyone other than our children. We don't show our feelings because people might think we're vulnerable and take advantage of us.
Sleep is the best remedy.