I've never been much of a meditator. Thoughts flash too fast and furious on a wide range of equally irrelevant subjects. My nails are worn to nubs from picking and biting. But, at age 51, I've finally experienced the power and beauty of lack of thought.
Just as I've always admired the yoga practitioner and serial meditator, I've fantasized about the peace that lies in the calm of the open sea. With dreams of spouting whales and jumping dolphins, I shepherd our family of four to our first whale watch.
Twenty minutes after 'take off' and I'm bent over a silver toilet in what must be the cleanest ship's bathroom ever. If any of the marine biology students guiding our vessel ever decide to start a cleaning service, I'm in.
Provided just enough room to wedge my doubled-over self between the outer rim of the toilet bowl and door, I brace myself for the impending swells and gastrointestinal upset against my own personal lifesaver -- the sink. I'm over-the-moon grateful for its lack of errant, stranger hair and rock-solid sturdiness when all around me bobs and weaves. I feel a connection far beyond what's normal for porcelain.
The phrase "getting your sea legs" comes to mind and provides some relief. I repeat it over and over. Its future tense implies that use of my legs is just a matter of time. It gives me hope that I will leave this room walking upright and not carried out on a stretcher.
When my husband knocks on the door, I can barely speak, but I need to know I'm the only sick one. Knowing that, I'm free to focus on the sweat that pours from me like a water tap at full blast and expelling anything remaining in my belly. Despite the microwaved White Castle burgers my sons ate as we left the dock, I'm the only one taking up permanent residence in a bathroom. Judging from the fortunate lack of sandaled feet visible on the other side of the door, I may be all alone in my love of the sink and scorn for the sea.
Given the knowledge that I'm blissfully alone, I'm free to focus on my current state and all it entails. With everything inside coming out and the ability to stand seeming increasingly like a pipe dream, it's impossible to think of anything other than where I am at this very second. My mind is a slave to my body.
After an hour and a half in my own personal purification chamber and missing every whale and dolphin sighting blared with joyful exuberance from the ship's PA, I stand with my legs of clay, hugging the sides of the ship in search of the first familiar face. I still can't force words from my mouth, but I fall on the ship's stern next to my ten year old son, who looks like he's seen a ghost. Oh wait, it's me.
I manspead my legs like a frat boy on the subway. No guilt or worry about social propriety. It feels freeing and glorious.
My husband rubs my back. With each movement, the soaked t-shirt and jogging bra move as one, the straps getting caught up with the shirt and vice versa. But with zero thoughts clunking around my brain aside from surviving this journey, I can fully appreciate the affection. Despite lingering flop sweat and Pippi Longstocking on acid hair, I'm being caressed. To me, that's the best of what meditation brings someone - clearing away the debris to see what's been there all along.
While my 'meditative' experience is not something I'm eager to repeat, it showed me with complete certainty that sometimes you have to throw it all up to see what you have.
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