Take the path of most resistance. My mantra. The clock reads 2:52 am; and gratitude stands guard - thank you for this house, for trees, for Howard, for sheets, windows, concrete, rocks, fasteners, lumber...feet to floor, gratitude walking alongside. Pleasant this awakening. Slight coolness in the air, I don a sweater, headband, hat, feel for blanket with some light of the moon. Walk to meditation. Where is that exactly? In the mind - impervious to location.
Sitting, radiant heater glowing, thoughts rush in like they own the place, resisting the silence. I shoo them to the side, only to find a backlog crowding the door. Resistance. Om pulls from my gut. Plant the boxwood along the west side of path, ooh, pull up grass in organic line. Om. Om. Om. Breath. Hmm, I'm breathing well. What does that mean? Resistance. Om. Om. Om.
Ideas fluidly pass through the ether and on occasion leave traces of inspiration...in the shower, a sink of dishes, and morning meditation. Ideas are experiments. Hypothesis waiting for their trial balloon moment. I have a million ideas a minute. Imposters breeze imperceptibly by, but the "pilot-test" ones repeat with encore performance stature. Adam Grant says ideation without execution is hallucination. Oh, that's why.
Do I resist the silence of meditation by justifying my thoughts? Hmmm, that's a chew. In the interim, resistance comes and goes as does wisdom. Independent of my feelings about either, they exist in the ether. Always present, cresting and valleying, adding tension and playing the strings.
100 situps...also meditation, ends the formal sitting and brings this third dimension into focus. I dress for my morning walk. Closing the slider, tree branches strum harmonically. Music to my ears.
