January 9, 2021
The more I write these journal entries for an audience, the more I think in the language of my journals. I see my thoughts in black text on a white page, and when I speak them into my mind, I probe deeper and deeper with each sentence of narration, free associating themes and ideas and linking them together in a grand tapestry of paragraphs. I enjoy thinking in this way. It's more lucid than my default mode. There's a comfortable balance between linearity and relationality to the thinking.
I was just noticing these qualities as I was meditating this morning. I noticed the medium and the message. The medium was this journal-thinking, and the message was that meditation makes me sad. Now I'm also noticing the meta reflection on both the mode and the medium, but for now I'll keep to describing these first two layers of abstraction.
So I had the thought that "meditation makes me sad." I think it's because I'm fundamentally judgemental of the contents of consciousness, which, at a shallower, day to day level of untrained awareness, doesn't feel true. Many times I feel very self accepting which was a hard earned treasure.
When I plunged the endoscope deep into my subconscious today, it pretty obvious that this judgement is prevalent, yet I didn't notice it for so long.
I knew that meditation could inspire melancholia, but I always assumed that was a result of becoming more fully acquainted with the physical sensation of pain and fullness in my stomach that is often there. That pain now appears to be a symptom and not a cause.
It is a symptom of a deeply embedded self-judgemental voice of and I'm uncovering that. My intuition assumes that the depth of this judgement would make it louder and more obvious, but really it obscures it to a whisper in my gut. Usually it is just a physical sensation that represents judgement creeping around my eyes and my cheeks, filling my belly. Rarely is it an English-speaking voice saying, "Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit! Get the fuck off of my obstacle! Get the fuck down off of my obstacle! NOW! MOVE IT! Or I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world!" (Thanks, Sgt. Hartman)
To be frank with me, I'm even judging myself now, which feels OK since I'm noticing it, and by OK I mean that it isn't spiraling out of control into more judgement.
But now I'm judging this as a "good" realization. And I'm finding myself wondering if that's ok, because in meditation I don't think you're supposed to judge your thoughts as "bad" nor "good" and I'm going deeper into a feeling of pain in my stomach as the wondering just wanders on.
Nothing is right, or I'm not right, and I'll never know the truth, and there is no truth.
Ahh, the feeling is dissipating again as I see them for the thoughts they are, disembodied and automatic.
But, oh, as I write those last words, the pain comes back. I notice that I fear that by ignoring it, I'm doing something fundamentally wrong, avoiding my pain, not being right and true in my healing and ultimately failing myself by failing to see the highest and truest truth about myself.
Now I'm having this thought: you sound so neurotic. You could never publish this, you just sound like an insane and fragile man-baby. And I'm smiling having this thought because my judgement is professional and skillful in it's persistence and that is funny. And for a brief moment after I smiled, I felt the judgement return: "don't try to turn this into something funny, you're just kidding yourself. You're just escaping."
Thanks Terry, but I've got it from here.
I take a deep breath and I feel again that sweet, natural pleasure of being embodied. My posture is straight and strong, my slippered-feet flat on the rug and I type my words out at a good pace with a cadence and style that I like.
I love my relationship with Terry. I can veto him at any time and he brings me lots of interesting associations and creative imagery and bodily pleasure that I have no way of consciously orchestrating. He is my partner, and he is the source of deep, cold and nutritious water from the depths of my mind, ever replenishing my consciousness with scintillating content and complexes to be untied.
I thank you Terry. I see that you're trying your best to help me succeed.
Towards the end of the meditation session that birthed this journal, I thought:
I can accept the experiences I'm having. I'm just me, bro, and I'm watching myself paying attention. It;s fun as shit. There's nothing I need to do, no people to please, and there's nothing I need to demand of myself. I don't need to not have thoughts, I don't need to do the "correct" meditation, I just get to have fun. Fuck yeah.
The journey is the destination, and I'm glad to be tripping along here on this journey.
I have so much inside me that wants to be seen and I get to be the witness to it all. My body is becoming energized with my witnessing eye's curious and loving attention. I think to stop writing and end this piece soon, but my body feels the inherent pleasure in this task and pushes me to continue. My belly is golden and pure with loving joy and this light is traveling up through my arms and into my fingers, tapping out words of happiness.
Flow incarnate.
I can’t wait to share these words.
Suddenly, at that thought, I notice judgement slap back. Terry conjures an image of the few people that read these journals judging the shit out of this one, thinking it weird, gay, insane, shameful, try-hard.
But I'm happy to have this story and this image made explicit. These thoughts are my object to play with like chess pieces. That is a victory I'll take. And it's a profoundly delicious victory.
Yum.
-Campi