I lie in my bed and try to become aware of my body on the mattress. It’s a strange feeling to be aware of the space I take up, of the odd way of my right foot is underneath the bedsheets and how I’m putting more weight on it than the left, how every night there always seems to be a tension, sometimes in my stomach, or in the hollow of my chest. Nomadic stress that finds home in strange parts in my gut. I’m supposed to observe this but not do anything about it. I find this easy because I’m quite good about feeling a bit shit about things and doing nothing about it.

Focus on your breath…

The male voice speaks to me from the tablet next to me that I realize is jutting slightly against my arm. I gently note the cold metallic feel (a.k.a pretend I’m not suddenly acutely aware and frustrated by it) and observe my breath. The voice tells to observe how each breath is different but I’m not sure exactly what he means by that, they all feel similar to me, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I focus more intently, until I start thinking about my friend’s birthdays coming up and how I’m steadily running out of money, how this isn’t a problem for anyone else because they chose courses where you could get a career and didn’t gallivant to Spain after college like I did. I remind myself that I loved Spain, I made the best memories there, and I even wrote that smug song about how I didn’t care if my life had no direction because I was sitting on a Spanish terrace in the middle of March. I wonder why I’m not there now, but now instead in my childhood bedroom on a Saturday night meditating at 10pm –

I’d like you now to start counting those breaths…

I dislike this part of meditation because it feels anything like spiritual transcendence, more like filling out a form or doing a survey. I do it anyway, though, because I’m not engaging in a power play with Andy Puddicombe’s soft, smooth like honey English accent. I do it, and am impressed that I can count but also think about what I’ll do to fill up the endless stretch of space tomorrow. Weekends blur into one and I’m strictly restricted to evenings with my employed friends. I should be grateful for this opportunity to write, to learn, to get qualified and focus on what I’d like to do. I think about Spain again, how Madrid is probably still 25 degrees at the moment and how the winter is still cold but usually sunny. And if it’s sunny it’s usually sunny for the whole day, not like in Ireland which is like some strange moody teenager, raining, cloudy, spitting, and then the most glorious honest-to-god sun you’d swear you’d seen in your life. The air wouldn’t be as crisp or sharp like it is in Dublin, probably because it’s one of the most air polluted cities in Europe, and I’d be living in the centre where the weekend night time ambience is drunken shrieking in the plaza (you pronounce the z like a t, yeah, I lived abroad-) –

Now I’d like you to become aware of your surroundings again as we end this meditation…

I feel bad because I think that’s Andy implying I was meant to be submerged deep in my unconscious as to be returning to the realm of reality. But I then gently note that I’m feeling bad because Andy says it’s okay to feel like that, that thoughts are normal to crop up and get lost in. I always like when he says that, I feel seen, and I do feel a bit better. I admit I’m in a parasocial relationship with him and I’m not sure what he looks like. I imagine him as that orange headspace character on Netflix, but I don’t feel too weird about that because Andy once told me to imagine sun radiating through my body and I felt fantastic afterwards.

I’m no pro at meditation but Ive been making the effort lately to try to incorporate it. Right after I’ve journalled and vomited every conscious thought and insecurity into my tired Luechturmm, I give my body time to sort itself out before bed. 10 minutes at most. Some days are better than others. Sometimes I’ll have a killer meditation, feel like my brain has run out of thoughts and is finally at peace, and then chuck on The Rest is History podcast about The Falklands War to further cement the tranquility. Other times I’ll have to sneeze three times in a row, or someone will come up the stairs and I’ll be scared of being barged in upon while I’m lying motionless.

It’s become a habit, primarily because I enjoy how I feel in the moments after, like my mind’s just detoxed. But it’s also something that permeates in other aspects of my life. Like when it’s easier to do those breathing exercises on the bus when someone’s playing their phone at full blast at the back of bus. An American Crime series, a fact I shouldn’t know because such information is strictly for the ears of the said phone user. But I breathe, and tell myself he probably can’t afford earphones, or maybe he just lost his gran and that was her favourite TV show, and I guess he watched it out loud with her on the bus too – I think of my feet on the ground, calmy embracing how the top floor of a Dublin Bus sometimes feel like it deserves a place on the Richter scale. Ah yes, that’s more like it.

I like how meditation allows me to be a spectator to my thoughts, like when I’ll feel anxious about being tired and wanting to be at home, I’ll look at the thoughts. They’re politely turned away at the door of my brain’s nightclub, which doesn’t have room for the likes of anxiety or stress. They can turn up, sometimes its good they come because I can interrogate them a bit and ask them where they’re from, but they’re not allowed to have a dance or shag someone in the bathroom. Sure, if the bodies a temple, then I suppose my brain is the hottest nightclub in town. And since I’ve walked into this metaphor, meditation helps me be the bouncer, so everyone can have a good night. So yes, I couldn’t be further from meditation’s Buddhist roots, but it works for me this way.

What I’m trying to say is that it isn’t easy but it’s absolutely worth it. When I told my friend about it, she let out a breath, ‘Jesus, I don’t know if I could sit around with my thoughts like that.’ She’s got a point, it’s strange to think of it. But it feels good to do. We spend so much of our lives in our heads, and nowadays when we’ve got a moment to breathe, we’re straight to our phones to send messages, watch tiktoks or youtube.

I hate brushing my teeth without reading something, which I used to think was okay because reading is probably better than watching good looking people dance or show off their outfits, but even reading is a distraction, god forbid I spend two minutes with myself and my thoughts.

I’m no master of zen now, as I hope this post has made clear. But I’m certainly more aware of how much we are both plagued by our thoughts and so absolutely avoidant of them. Meditation is a time in your day when you can let the thoughts come in and then…out, like the breath itself. You don’t need to be perfect, or to think you have to come out of every session truly relaxed and immune to annoyance, it forces you to get out of your own head by examining it more. If a couple of minutes of silence every night is the difference between me and a stress induced outburst at an unfortunate family member, then I’d consider it a worthwhile hobby.