Meditate for three minutes, write for two.

I tried to meditate today.  For three minutes, I closed my eyes.  I sat on my bed with my arms softly crossed in front of my chest, and I listened to myself breathe.  If my phone had buzzed, there would have been trouble.  But it didn't, thank goodness, and so I was able to disappear for a moment.  I don't remember the last time I listened to myself breathe.  The Caribbean can be meditative without effort, and I remember floating on my back in the salty sea, water so calm that I didn't move, and allowing my ears to sink just below the surface.  The sun warm on my face, the sea cool on my fingertips, the water like two hands covering my ears, asking me to hear only me. 

It is hard to focus lately.  As a mom, most of my mental (and physical) (and emotional) (and all other kinds of) energy is absorbed into one tiny human, who doesn't allow for anything other than being the sun in my heliocentric world.  It's fine.  If one day, she told me she was the moon, I would move to revolve during the nighttime so that she could glow.  That is the truth of motherhood.  And it is cliche to remind moms to take care of  themselves, and it is not totally understood that "self care" has become another part of the job. 

My phone has become a crutch.  I lean on it when I'm bored.  I lean on it when I think I'm bored.  I lean on it for far longer than I need to, because I have somehow become convinced that without it, I am crippled.  My god, what a waste that is, huh?  There was a time when losing a phone was a joy (this happened often, for the Caribbean Sea, while meditative, is not particularly friendly to electronics.  Perhaps it is meditative because of this).  I find myself envying that girl, and wondering if she has blocked my number or if I could dial her up for coffee.  If she even has a phone right now.

So today, I tried to meditate.  I realized in those gentle few moments that I need to remember to put it all down.  That taking care of myself is less a bubble bath and more permission to truly disappear, even from myself.  And, on occasion, from the sun.  (While she's napping or with her dad or something, I'm not crazy)