Walking Meditation

Walking Meditation by Odin Roark “And I thought marriage was hard.” Taking Meditation for a walk nags me with why I’m such a failure at this. It knows what I go through every morning. I sit, cross my legs (kill myself with that lotus thing) breathe deep, listen to my breath, et al., while all I hear is the traffic beyond the walls. With eyes closed, all I see are re-runs and first-runs, trailers, montages, full lengths, pictures I can’t fade out. So… We walk, Meditation and I. I’m so bad at imagining anything, you know? Distraction always finds me. Like the mangy mutt from the brownstone across the way. Not satisfied with just relieving himself under a spindly tree, or on the block’s fire hydrant. No, he strides up beside me, insisting with a obnoxious whimper, he’ll keep me company. Usually, a nameless dumpster-cat finally gets his attention, and off he chases. Every morning. Same alley opening. Not far ahead, panhandlers take up their craft. Cardboard signs for begging, or extended empty cup, topped with the phony eyes of an Academy Award winner. Meditation gives me its elbow, and we proceed. It knows the real test of concentration is the bakery. This is a storefront that should be banned. Bagels. Not just any kind of bagels, the best. That aroma alerts the nose and the eyes just give up. The ears capitulate. and I hear nothing. My eyes see nothing. And for a moment, just a moment, there is the sublime “nothingness” of Meditation’s mission. But only for a moment. My stomach growls its usual curse of hunger, and… I trudge on to the flower box. I’m blocks away from home now and always stop in front of it. Safely wedged between the window bars and the glass, its lone flower, always in bloom, winks. An all-season survivor (most likely rescued from a Chinese restaurant table) its faded plastic leaves and pink petals soaks up the new life of fresh air, sunlight and pedestrian smiles. No one passes this window box without stopping and staring. If you’re lucky, you'll arrive just as the elderly lady, the mistress of the one-room flat, raises the window and gives the singular flower a drink, usually the melted ice of her early morning wake-up highball. My doctor thinks these walks with Meditation are good for me, but my other walking buddy, Conscience, who inevitably tags along, knows I’m a fraud. I can’t do introspection justice, back there, or on the sidewalk. I can barely make real these walks, let alone be of any encouragement to my wannabe helpful buddy. I’m a hopeless failure in making friends with anything, except sleeping, and even that relationship is starting to piss me off. Takes up way too much time now, always wanting my devotion, which I willingly give. It’s just… Well, there comes a time when job, marriage, kids, you know the drill, the whole calamity that demands an even more special attention. So... Conscience says I should not give up on Meditation. Back there, I mean. Back in the padded cell they gave me. The place I never leave except for these walks that seem to go nowhere.