Growing up Mormon in a small Midwestern town wasn't easy. One of my sister's friends--let's just call her Angie--once started a rumor about our family after spending the night at our house. No, it wasn't that my dad had horns but I had heard that one before too. The rumor was that she saw my dad standing on his head, meditating, when she went to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.
First off, my dad couldn't stay awake past the ten o'clock news, so the likelihood of that is not great. Secondly, although my sisters and I were quite acrobatic, my dad wasn't and I never so much as saw him do a cartwheel, much less stand on his head for any period of time.
Turns out, another friend of my sister's dad was taking the mormon missionary discussions. I don't know what she heard, but it must have been something about praying and then "listening" to God for an answer. Or maybe they even mentioned the word "meditation." Not sure, but I do know that several weeks later, this friends' dad killed himself. I don't know if learning about God was a last-attempt before the alternative. But I know his death must have crushed my sister's friend's world.
Nonetheless, the rumor was still flying around the small town of Columbia Illinois much to our dismay. Because in small towns, no bit of gossip is brushed under the rug. Everyone knows everything, even when it's not true.
I'm reading a book, "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert where the author went to India to stay in an Ashram with her spiritual guru to learn how to really meditate. It all seemed so weird to me. I mean, really, a room full of people closing their eyes, chanting, focusing on . . . none other than listening to God. After all, as she put it, praying is talking to God and meditating is listening to God. Of course, it all makes sense. To have a conversation with God, to really know God, you couldn't just have a one-way conversation, could you?
I realized though that I haven't listened to God in a long time. Since before the accident when Miranda died. I've been feeling like I could practically pat myself on the back for still going to church every Sunday, still praying, not hating God like I was tempted to feel. But I have been selfish, as grief usually is. And I haven't been listening to God.
So last night, I decided to close my eyes, sit very still, and say the words. Ham-sa. Yes, I felt like I was being weird. And almost felt like surely Susannah's friend Angie was looking in through the window, ready to spread the news that I was meditating.
The world has come a long way since the 20 years ago when this rumor started. Meditating is more accepted (maybe as its sister yoga came into the limelight and became not only accepted but the thing to do).
But as I told Eric last night in bed that I've decided to start meditating and started reciting the little chant, ham-sa, ham-sa, in bed, he said, "Just remember, Jeana, your meditation can very easily be my irritation. Please go into the other room if you insist on meditating."
So, I'm going to try harder. I'm going to start listening. After all, what is the point of asking questions to God if you're not sticking around to listen for the answer?
