You Are Here... in the Parking Lot
Or how to meditate amongst concrete and traffic noise
So…it’s been a bit since I’ve posted. I’ve been on an existential journey of sorts — gotten back into seriously meditating instead of playing at it. I have written a lot but not posted anything. I was recalibrating, asking myself, “Why do I do this — write and share and write and share?” I had to remove the self-consciousness from writing, and it called for expressing myself with the keyboard without the notion of tailoring it for an audience. Now, having shed that mantle, I feel ready to reconnect with at least the idea of readers. Here is a piece of prose that came out of this journey so far:
I have to admit, I feel a little silly sitting here in the parking lot with my shoes off at 7:18am. The tree I’m under is scraggly, and this little island of grass in a sea of concrete is comprised of patchy, scratchy weeds and hard-packed dirt with the occasional broken plastic fork as decoration. Maybe not your ideal setting for communing with nature.
But this is where I am.
This is the time I have.
Before work, while my youngest is inside the high school building doing strength and conditioning. Something he wanted to do and something I am happy to drive him to in the wee hours, since it means he’s not in front of a screen, sedentary for the entire summer.
And yet I do feel a little self-conscious.
Other parents wait in their cars with the engines running — maybe for the air conditioner, even though it’s a pleasant 72 degrees outside. For now. Or they take the opportunity to walk with a friend, go for a run, before the heat of the day sets in. These are the things most people do, and so I feel exposed, here with my lawn chair, sitting in this median, in the middle of a parking lot, where anyone can see me and think, What’s that weirdo doing?
When I was in second grade, two other kids came upon me sitting in the corner shade of the building during recess. I had my sweater over my head to create some semblance of alone time, of privacy. They tried to pull the sweater off to see who I was, and I held it tight until they gave up, giggling. After that, I tried not to do weirdo things in public. This feeling right now is related to that.
But I do it anyway.
Because I’m 48 years old and no longer want to confine myself to other people’s pedestrian expectations.
Because despite two nosy kids on a playground once, I’ve realized most people do not give a shit what I do. Most people won’t even notice me here and if they do, they don’t care, or at least adults are better about letting weirdos be, sans confrontation, than second graders are.
And so I do the thing that makes me just a little uncomfortable. And it feels good.
I wanted to meditate, but I did that in my car.
I didn’t think I could relax properly sitting out here for everyone (probably no one) to see. Part of me is a guru on a mountain, and part of me is a human meat sack with lizard brain tendencies, and you gotta give the lizard its due sometimes. Gotta let it have a few.
Maybe I’m being a useful example for some people.
Once, I was sitting out here, and another parent walked by. She looked at me and didn’t avert her eyes when I met her gaze. I thought for a split second, I must know her.
She said hi. I said hi.
Despite the mundane interaction, we connected for a moment. Maybe it was the naked, yet unassuming, eye contact. Maybe it was something more quantum. I don’t know what she was thinking, maybe nothing, but maybe….What’s she doing? That looks like a good idea.
It feels good to think maybe, in just doing me, in just being, perhaps I have a small positive influence. But that can’t be the reason I do it, the reason I do anything, solely.
This parking lot has concrete and cars, trees and birds, the sound of a far-off garbage truck lifting dumpsters. It has the feel of the hard scrabble dirt and tough plants beneath my bare feet. It has the barest of cool breezes. It has a dormant trailer parked over there and wispy white clouds floating lazily across a light-blue sky. Tall poles with lights mark where the baseball field is — birds nest there.
Much as I love an escape into nature, into calm lakes, towering mountains, wind-swept dunes and beaches, this is as good a place as any to get in touch with the part of the earth that isn’t inside a house. People are part of nature and people made those power lines over there, just like beavers make dams. They are, in a way, part of nature, too, much as I often wish the skyline was unfettered by them.
Sitting where I am, being where I am — acknowledging the self-consciousness but doing it anyway. That’s where I am. And it feels good.
Love this 💕 Love you! Good to hear from you again!👏