My Search for Zen

I married a really cool cat. I mean, “cool” in the sense that he stretches me, invites me into new spaces and new ways of thinking…and I end up going places that I never would have proactively sought if not prompted by him. On a daily basis, I find myself slowing down this neurotic mind, sometimes just by being in his presence…letting his embrace or his gentle guitar playing be a sieve for my flitting thoughts until some kind of Zen drips into a deeper inner space. I do know that “he” isn’t doing it. It’s my own mind and my soul, but alas, it’s just nice that it happens more frequently now. And it’s a joy to experience that with him. 

It’s all quite something, sometimes. In most cases, he’s already tried many more things than my sheltered little self. 

Before Mike, I led what can be called…a comfortable existence. I…more often times than not, did NOT put myself in uncomfortable situations. Well, not by choice anyway. Not that I wasn’t bold. I mean, if it was moving towards a goal of sorts, I might put myself and my abilities out there. But if there was no identifiable GOAL?  Well then, what was the point really? 

And I had a tendency to think through every scenario, before deciding if I would move forward. Yes? Like actually try to predict the future in a new situation, see myself in it, observe my possible actions, decide that all went well…and then say, “Well, okay, I guess I’ll try that. Or I guess I’ll say that.” 

Well, I don’t really do that anymore. Not even alone. And especially not with him. I trust him wholeheartedly, so I’ll basically go ANYWHERE with him. And try just about ANYTHING…within reason of course. And what do I say to myself now?

I say, “What’s the worst that can happen?” 

I often look back on my previous writings…just about every week. Sometimes to make sure that I’m not about to write the same thing and sometimes to see where I’ve come from, what I’m moving through and moving past. When I reread my very first writing over three months ago, I noticed that I wrote this question twice. “What’s the worst that can happen?”  Interesting, I thought. I suppose it has been a mantra of sorts in recovery, and I wasn’t even conscious of it. 

Mike and I ended last week sort of down. Not openly depressed, but highly aware that we needed to get out of these walls which we call Home and experience something different. We both work from home and spend more hours in these few rooms than is likely recommended for any human being…so it’s only normal that routine becomes mundane and even inwardly depressing sometimes. You know, like “knowing” that you are going to do the same exact thing day after day if you stay in the same space, if you roam the same hallways.

So, he took me to a Korean spa in Dallas, because the kids were at their Dad’s this past weekend. It’s a massive facility, where you can spend the entire day lounging, reading and meditating in various rooms, getting spa treatments and partaking in what can best be called “water therapy”…massive pools of both warm and hot water equipped with jets so strong, they would scare small children. There’s also amazing delicacies, teas and smoothies in a large food court, movie rooms, and an indoor water park for children, probably more popular during the summer months of broiling temperatures in Dallas, TX. 

As you approach the large entrance, you are greeted by giant gargoyles on either side, Asian carvings, and a staircase representing your entrance into another dimension. So curious, I was. I mean, I’m a people watcher at heart. My brother and I used to station ourselves on mall benches in the 80’s, watch the passersby, and create stories around where they came from, what they did for a living and what their speaking voices sounded like…and then concoct full conversations that they may be having with the person walking beside them. Maybe this was my first imaginative writing. Or improv acting. I guess it was both. So, I suppose my first thought was that I would be watching others to see how I should take this all in. 

But hell yes, I was entirely willing to try this out…even though I wondered if this was one of those spas where people openly walk around naked.  Oh Lord…I’m not really that girl.  I always wanted to be that girl…that uninhibited hippie chick who couldn’t care less if her boobs sprung about and her ass jiggled in her wake. But that ain’t me. My decision lied in asking myself that one question again:  What’s the worst that can happen? There was no goal…except to experience something new. And yeah, to get out of my boredom and neuroses for a while. It was simply an adventure full of…possibility.

When we walked through the doors, we paid our entrance fee for the day, took off our shoes, and were handed our frocks. Yes, frocks. It was the same for any gender, really. No, this was not a hoity toity luxurious typical American spa with $150 robes. It had frocks, where everyone looked the same…originally designed to eliminate the inherent prejudice in classism. Just a short-sleeved version of medical scrubs…or a prison uniform, if you wanted to look at it that way. I thought it best to put THAT thought aside as I walked into the ladies changing room.

And yes, my first greeters were several openly naked Korean women coming out of a hot tub grotto of sorts. (It’s actually a Bathing Room with open showers and various hot pools for dipping.) Anyway, these women approaching me were not wrapped in towels. Oh no, just “naked as a jaybird,” like my Mom used to say. I averted my eyes from their boobs and personal grooming choices and made my way to my locker to change…then decided to change in a bathroom stall instead, because the group of naked women were standing right on my aisle (still no towels), conversing in a language that left me feeling like an outsider.  Oh God! I’m such a dork by nature. Yes, I was the ONLY person changing in a bathroom stall. 

But you know. I just wasn’t ready quite yet. And that’s okay. I was the token white chick at that early hour, and I had to accept my intimidation…and just see where this all would lead. 

Then, I met my husband outside of the changing rooms, and he began to lead me around the many parts of the spa, introducing me to each new space, whispering his explanations, so as not disturb those who were clearly meditative, calm and uncommunicative. Of course, my first thought was that I was the only female who had kept on my sports bra under my frock shirt. Yes, I was acutely aware that I was the only one (yet again) who cared about this. And that the reality is that I can write and BARE my soul to the world in THIS way, but I don’t want to let my nipples show around strangers. Through a fucking SHIRT. 

Yet another dork realization…that I was embarrassed of my embarrassment. (Anytime you repeat yourself in this way, you are experiencing terribly unproductive emotions, right?  Sad about my sadness. Embarrassed of my embarrassment. Annoyed about my annoyance.)

I wanted to try out being Uninhibited about my Inhibition. Comfortable with my Comfort Level. And definitely less American about my Americanness…or maybe White-Suburban-Momness. 

We spent the day there. Sometimes together in one of the rooms. Sometimes apart. It is lovely to be with someone who I don’t have to discuss details with. There’s no “hey, I’m going to go visit the Salt Room for 26 minutes and then let’s meet up in the Infrared Heated Room for a nice little meditation at 3:37 pm.” We didn’t do that. We just let one another be. There were a few times when we ended up in the same room, and plenty when we did not. 

I found myself sinking into both relaxation and clarity in those spaces. I entered with intention, and patiently waited for that intention to take over my body first, then my mind, and finally seep into whatever soul space it could. Eventually, I forgot all schedules, worries, and inhibiting realities. 

It was not lost on me that there was also a bar in the spa. Maybe a little strange at first, but alcohol usually accompanies environments where we are meant to relax, right? Wine at the nail salons. Beer at the sports bar. Cocktails offered at every afternoon gathering. And I don't get to forget about that. Ever. The goal for me is not to forget it, but for the fact that I don't drink...to NOT be a hindrance in any way. Luckily, we arrived early, so alcohol wasn't necessarily on the menu for most there. But by noon, it was impossible not to notice more action at the bar. And I wondered why? 

I wondered how normal drinkers are able to relax on just a few drinks. I always thought that's what I was doing. You know? Relaxing when I drank. But I wasn't. Realizing this now is kind of like understanding intimacy. You might think you know it. You go through all the actions you've dreamed about or watched on TV. You may have even practiced it for years...and then one day, you experience true intimacy...and your MIND is absolutely blown. You are forced to redefine it entirely, because you functioned from ignorance all along. Like that. I just had no idea that alcohol wasn't doing what I intended it to do.

So, without being altered in any way, I wondered if I could not only relax, but...(drum roll)...meditate. Intimidating word for me.

I’ve never considered myself as a person who is very...meditative. Not for lack of trying, but in truth, I haven't really tried much formal practice, and certainly not in public. Generally speaking, I always felt painfully obvious as one of those individuals who is UNABLE to meditate…as if I had a spotlight on me, a big sign on my chest that said, “Unable to get out of Self. Confined to Confinement.” In a room of successful meditators… "which of these things is unlike the others?" Right? 

But that day was different. It may have taken hours, but I eventually got there. I took off my shoes willingly. I disrobed first in solitude, and eventually didn’t care who in the world saw my nipples, my nakedness…or my inner thoughts, if that was possible. I didn’t really give a shit what that sign on my chest said, because I was the only one speaking my inner language. I was the only one who even cared. 

I even fell asleep awhile in one of the rooms, after blissfully losing any awareness of others for I don’t know HOW long! Um…that has NEVER happened to me. I have never fallen asleep ANYWHERE in public without being conscious of who might see me or what might happen as a result. In these spaces, that’s what people did. You could even walk down a hallway and see someone asleep on a mat on the floor. Yep. Just step around them. Or they could be asleep in one of the communal spaces, selfishly taking up an entire leather couch. I found it fascinating…more surprising than the unbound boobs and nakedness in the bathing rooms, really. Just people being vulnerable and comfortable enough to sleep around strangers. Not out of necessity, because they happened to be stuck in an airport...but just…because.

By the end of the day it was busier, more people had arrived, and there were more white people, frankly. I was actually pleasantly surprised at how diverse the company was, but yes, it was a group of White Suburban Moms who finally fucked up my Zen in one of the rooms. I had been laying like a prostrate crucifix upon a heated floor in a Salt Room and had already begun to lose conscious thought, dozing for some unknown amount of time….when a few friends (not of mine) entered the room, laid down silently for a little while, and then started an open and vocal conversation just a few feet away from me. I think they were only a couple of sentences into their conversation before they started talking about losing weight and skipping meals. 

Fucked.  Up.  My.  Zen.

I read into the situation, and figured that they allowed themselves to openly talk about these things in that space, because I looked like one of them, right? Especially because I was the ONLY other person in that particular room. (It’s really more like an igloo, but you get the picture.) I guess they couldn’t see that one of those things was NOT like the others. I did not want to hear anyone talk. I did not want to bring the outside world’s expectations into that space. And I certainly did not want to talk about thighs.  Are you kidding me? 

Emotions and memory are stored in the body. It had taken me hours to find a place where I brought neither into my present, and they blew it all apart for me. And yes, I had some ageist, racist, gender-prejudiced and generally unfriendly thoughts about them as I left the hot hut. Reality, Expectation and Judgement had just awakened me from slumber…and I wanted nothing more than to leave them alone with their discussion and exit the room. 

So that’s what I did. I left them alone. Closed the door on both their words and their infringement. 

You see, I did not impose judgement on the many who were different than me. It was quite the opposite. I envied THEIR ability to wear less, to care less, to talk less. My judgement was entirely reserved for people just like me. People who cloth more, who care too much, who talk too much. That’s why it was a joy to be around newness of body, mind and spirit. It welcomed me to a different state of being, and THAT was altering. Freeing. Well, except for those few moments with the sorority sisters. (Don’t worry, ya’ll. I can say this. I was one of those.)

I even tried not to write for the next few days. On purpose. Because I just wanted to see if I could summon this state of mind for a little while longer. I wondered what that intention would bring. I wondered if it would bring a little more Zen into my home space, work space, mind space, heart space.

I’m still barefoot and braless this morning. Who knows? Maybe I’ll stay like this all day long. Maybe I'll go grocery shopping in my current state. What’s the worst that can happen?

I will challenge myself to find my Zen space. I will not skip a meal for the sake of my thighs. I will relax without the aid of alcohol. I will choose silence over mindless banter. And I will walk amongst others, naked in spirit.