I Begin. Again. Yet Again.

I am not long back from five weeks away. Hiking in the Lake District in the UK, also in the backcountry in Norway. Time with family and friends. A writing retreat. A meditation retreat.

Now. At home. I begin again. As if some part of my life was frozen in time, while I explored other dimensions. A part of me is frustrated with beginning again. When will I get to the middle? Which I imagine as more settled and secure, instead of mysterious and unsettling. The three years since the dissolution of my marriage have felt like an unending series of begin-agains. Picking myself up off the floor. An eternal loop of standing up one more time than I’ve fallen.

Another part of me is curious. Maybe beginning again is just right.

At the meditation retreat, I had one of those teeny-tiny felt insights, which can set off a chain of subtle shifts. Shifts so small they may be sub-perceptual. And yet. Over the course of time. Drop by drop.

Here’s what happened. We were doing a breath count meditation. Following the teacher’s instructions, the count went like this in my head: I breathe in. I breathe out. One. I breathe in. I breathe out. Two. I breathe in. I breathe out. Three. Up to six and begin again. This is a variation on a Thich Nhat Hanh meditation: Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.

All those words in my head felt like a jumble sale. I dropped I breathe out, saying (in my mind) just the number on the out breath. I breathe in. One. I breathe in. Two.  Still, the words were awkward, jangly. I was managing the count, but stumbling over the words. Then, out of nowhere, instead of saying to myself, I breathe in. I heard myself say, I begin. My whole body relaxed. I begin. The words felt exact. Spacious. Right. Not about falling and standing back up.

I have a charm on my key fob with the words I begin. It was given to me by a close friend who I met when I was a participant in a weeklong theatre workshop she was teaching on Tectonic Theatre Project’s Moment Work devising technique. Devising is a way of creating theatre from the ground up, from small theatrical moments, instead of starting with a fully formed script. During devising sessions, micro-scenes are created in a framework that starts with the presenter speaking the words, I begin. They then show a moment they’ve created and close with, I end. Slowly, these micro-bits accumulate, coalesce and evolve together, until a full piece emerges. We became friends and ended up devising a play for 10 women. Hence the gift of the charm.

As I thought about the words, I begin, arising in the meditation, I recognized that, for me, they are a symbol of co-creation, of blank slate, of experimentation, of not-knowing and still trying. Of finding what works and letting what doesn’t drop away.

During the retreat meditation, I felt how that instant, sitting there on that cushion, experiencing that spontaneous arising of the words, I begin, was both its own moment and part of an accumulation of moments, a greater story, which was already partially written, yes, but which still had room for creativity and experimentation. I felt my whole body settle. As if the words were saying, it’s okay, you can stop struggling, just take the next step.

The settled feeling passed. Of course. Yet, its residue has stayed with me. In my daily meditations now, I use the words, I begin, when I’m counting breaths. When I remember. Because I don’t remember every time. Of course. Each time I do, it offers me a scintilla of extra ease, like a hand giving my shoulder a quick squeeze.

So that when I get a message from my ex that threatens a rabbit hole of complicated distress, I can breathe, step back from reacting, and allow myself time to feel into the right and compassionate response. I can allow the moment my heart seizes to be what it is, let it fall away and allow the next I begin.

Oh, I know I will continue to struggle and push and try. I’m not changed into a forever relaxed and worry-free person by the incantation of two simple words. And I do feel like I have a little more access to those qualities than before. That’s the power of the right words. For me. I am, if you’ve read other of my musings, a word person. The right ones can offer me an anchor in the storms of life. That’s why I gravitate toward practices like having a Word of the Year.   

An image many meditation teachers use is of silt settling to the bottom of a glass of water. How we cannot see the clear water, which is always there, when it is obstructed by the silt of our thoughts. Once we have glimpsed the clear water though and we can begin (that word again) to understand that it is always there, we can cultivate the ability to return to that state we’ve experienced. I notice this principle applies to running (and other sports). In the inevitable cycles of lower and higher engagement, injury and recovery, I feel how my body understands this rhythm and helps me return to equilibrium. My body remembers how to use the tempo of my steps, my arms, my knee lift, to accelerate and lay off, exploring where those boundaries and possibilities are each day.

Coming home from a long time away and finding myself facing the same personal and work challenges, I feel how I want to retract into worry, push, push, push toward solutions.  My hope with the words I begin, is to cultivate my ability to return to the experience of the retreat, to the feeling of settling and expanding. Of trusting. I want to struggle less. Adjust my focal length to the micro-moments, as in the theatre practice. How can I make this little slice of now more … more supportive, more beautiful, more easeful, more impactful? As I begin.  

Again. And again. Yet again.