My mind is a whrilwind. Little bits of images flit through my mind, seemingly at random. A mountain of bills sit on the counter. Dirty dishes in the sink. A hard-used sedan. A man's pleading eyes in the courtroom. The odd stares I sometimes get from the people I work with. My teacher's fist, neatly and infuriatingly in my face despite my best efforts. All silent little tableaus of the sloppy things I've helped create.
There was a time in my life when my identity was a solid and easily grasped.
That time is most firmly in the past.
All sorts of labels float around in my head, looming and unfamiliar. A little boy with an angelic face murmurs, "Dada, dada, dada..." A kind woman with glasses says, "trauma survivor". A flinty-eyed judge calls me "counsel", though I certainly don't feel like I am properly fit to counsel anybody. I often feel as if I am still the callow boy that I was, only I've learned to imitate a fairly large amount of competent men and women, and wear their demeanor like a skin when I have to. I am continually amazed that more people don't spot me for the charlatan that I am.
My back aches as I haul myself off the floor and stand. I'm somewhere in-between. I'm not young and strong, but I'm definitely not old and cunning, either. I take a deep breath and step into the right place. To call it a drawn bow would denote the sense of readiness, but would suggest tension. To call it flowing water would create a picture of relaxation, but rob the same picture of its intensity. It is standing, and nothing more. But within nothing lives everything.
The trick is reaching into all that chaos and pulling out the right thing. I find myself too often reaching into that void and pulling out the same tired junk that I don't need.
My knee bends and it begins. My movements are at times pleasing, and more often jerky. The little hitches and small shifts mirror the little jolts in my mind. All of the little emotional rills and roils of the current are coming to the surface. Life has pushed my buttons, and all the little contours of my subconscious, which have spent so much time covered by cheap window dressing, are starting to snake their way free into the daylight. The experience is at times liberating, but just as often, deeply harrowing.
My feet continue to whisper across the carpet. Half an hour passes without notice. By the time I take a break, I am covered with sweat, but I am not breathing hard. I ruefully note that I'm not breathing enough, and the breath that comes often isn't in the right places. I firmly remind myself that I can only fix one thing at a time. It's a hard thing, because I am not at peace with my imperfections.
I walk around the living room and pick up toys and blankets. I think of the very nice and tidy living rooms that some of my friends have. Mine is a confused welter of humanity, stacked high with law books and toys. Laundry is draped over the chairs, and a sword is neatly tucked into the corner.
I reflect on my training and my teacher. I search for some profound piece of wisdom from our most recent interaction. The sort of inspirational thing you could write down, for others to read and nod towards. All my mind can come to is a fortune cookie that I got a couple years ago at my favorite Chinese restaurant.
"Just keep on keepin' on!"
Despite the chaos, I can't help but chuckle. The laugh is genuine, gentle, and more than a bit rueful. At the time I thought it was the lamest fortune I'd ever gotten, but there is something powerful in it. In our fantasies, life's deep truths are always poetic and pleasingly phrased. In reality, despite their awesome gravity, they are often as plain as the writing in a truck stop.
I resume my movements. Unbidden, quiet words seep into my mind as I move. "Your problem is that you are always stopping and disengaging. Good, bad, or indifferent, just keep going. Don't stop moving."
So I don't. And while I don't end the practice with my mind or my living room in perfect order, they are both tidy enough, and quite enjoyable to occupy.
