This morning, I meditated. Well. Actually, I squirmed, fidgeted, thought about elephants and how they use their trunks, Donald Trump, how a nebula is formed, Einstein’s crazy mustache and that picture of him sticking out his tongue, how my knee hurts, what a knee replacement will feel like, how does scar tissue form, why would someone tell me years ago that cats don’t snore, why can’t wolves move their eyebrows, where is Sue the T-Rex being exhibited and a host of other things. And that was in the first 5 minutes. The good news is: I meditated.

This is how it always is for me, using Transcendental Meditation. Since I am familiar with meditation, and I actually deeply enjoy it, it’s like using muscle memory to return to it. When Donald Trump entered into my consciousness, I took a deep breath, feeling grateful for the mantra. It calmed me immediately. Because I have meditated before, I knew this would happen. What I didn’t know is that the work I’ve done since Boulder Crest Retreat would help me to be gentle with Donald, with Einstein’s crazy mustache, with the person who told me cats don’t snore (because mine do), with the wonderings about nebulas, all the other things, and with myself. I didn’t get frustrated this morning. Instead, I softened, kind of smiled, and turned back to the mantra.

Not long after returning from Boulder Crest, I read that meditation with a mantra is like an elephant walking through a bazaar. Elephants learn about the environment around them by using their trunks. If one were to go through a bazaar, it wouldn’t get very far because there would be so much to investigate. Give the elephant a log to carry with its trunk, and it would no longer need to explore, and would continue on through the bazaar in a more direct way. So it is with the curious mind and a mantra.

Since I am so fond of elephants, this resonated with me. Of course it was one of the first things that bubbled up in meditation; that’s ok. It’s all ok, really. It’s a practice. My next meditation will have other thoughts enter to have a cup of tea. I no longer feel rigidity around meditation. I no longer worry about doing it right, or what the rules might be for this particular discipline, or if my posture is correct. In fact, when I meditate, I almost fold in on myself, relaxed and comforted. When I meditate, I am almost Home. Sometimes, I actually do have a glimpse of Home. As I understand it, this isn’t common. When those moments arrive, I appreciate them all the more.

Part of my practice has always been to express gratitude after the soft bell rings. At first it’s naming things. Then it moves into feeling the feelings. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I enter the Buzz. Sometimes, not often, I disappear. I find that meditation sometimes opens the door to the Presence. Most often not, but I like to leave flowers at the door anyway.

My TM teacher suggested that I not use an app or sound or anything to assist me in my meditation. I tried that for a long time. For me, it’s very helpful to use a meditation timer, (I use Insight Timer on my phone which does that and so much more – for free!) and a background sound. I’ve decided that whatever works is what I’ll do because all the roads to Home are good roads. I’ll still benefit from the practice.

In keeping with TM though, I meditate twice a day. It’s time for me to meditate. Perhaps if Donald shows up this time, I’ll offer him a seat and a lovely cup of tea.

Back in October 2015, I applied and was chosen to attend a week long intensive therapy retreat for Veterans with PTSD. At that time, I had been in group therapy for over 7 years. I’d done experiential work which would singe the eyebrows of most people. Yet, having done the work was the only way I was prepared to take the leap of faith and say yes to that unique opportunity. If I had the chance to go any earlier, I would never have gone. The timing was perfect.

The trip was terrifying to me: in a way, it had the flavor of going away to Basic Training. I was getting on a plane, my fare paid for, and flying to somewhere I’d never been, to spend time with people I didn’t know. As it turned out, it was the single most healing week of my life. All the work I’d done leading up to that point prepared me for what was to come.

The place is called Boulder Crest Retreat located in Bluemont, Virginia. (You can read all about it at bouldercrestretreat.org .) When I arrived at Dulles airport, a representative was there to pick me up, along with another woman I’d be spending the week with. We were driven in a van to the property. As we entered through the gate, I felt transported. This was nothing close to what I had pictured in my mind. Large cabins, rolling hills on a huge property. I was assigned a cabin with 2 other women veterans. There were 6 of us who attended the retreat.

The program was carefully thought out: art therapy, equine therapy, meditation, yoga, group therapy, EMDR, archery, kayaking and more. I found the lost part of myself at Boulder Crest that week – the part lost to PTSD, to trauma, to depression. This place gives veterans a taste of the best of the military, which some of us didn’t experience.

When I graduated from Basic Training I was bursting with pride. Through many of my experiences while active duty, I lost that feeling. The week at Boulder Crest brought it back to me. Through equine therapy, I felt myself return – it came as a surge of energy, a remembrance, which rose up from the earth, through my feet, into my heart, flowing out the top of my head. The earth literally moved beneath me as my spirit returned to me. My Warrior Sisters were in the distance, and I could see and hear them cheering for me, throwing support in a way I’d never experienced. Smiling faces of 5 women I’d learn to trust in such a short time. They didn’t know it at the time I don’t think, but they were filling up the aching hole which woundedness had left in my soul. The magnificent horse we worked with was Clayton. His gentle nature, his calm assurance, brought me back home to myself. Thank you, Clayton. You are always in my heart.

Kayaking made me nervous. I was scared I would capsize. As it turns out, I did. The only one to do it, it was a moment I will forever be grateful for. I now call any moment that appears insurmountable a “kayak moment.” One of the sad things that stems from my military service is … shame. I won’t go into the why of it, but I can say that I wore shame like a piece of clothing. Any mistake I made, any misstep, brought up burning shame. The day I capsized was well into my week at Boulder Crest. I had many experiences to look to as proof that I wasn’t who or what I thought I was. I was stronger than I knew. When I was in the water, trying to stay afloat, I panicked. In a flash, Warrior Sisters and therapists were surrounding me, helping me get back into the kayak. I felt the old familiar shame – this was a spectacular mishap. Yet something miraculous happened in that moment, right after climbing back into my kayak: I realized I had a choice to do it differently this time. I could choose to not feel shame. I could choose to look at myself in a new way. As my Warrior Sisters surrounded my kayak, asking me if I was ok, I struggled inside to rise up and do it differently. When I said that I was ok, everyone else was happy to move on. I moved on with them. I chose not to let myself be debilitated by shame. Instead, I chose to rise into freedom.

The relationships I formed with my Warrior Sisters changed me. I found 5 other women who had struggled like me for various reasons during and after our time in the military. This changed me in a fundamental way. After I received my honorable discharge from the Air Force, I avoided all contact with anything and anyone connected to the military. In fact, I didn’t even consider myself a veteran. So many women of my era still don’t. Connecting with these 5 women, brave and strong and true, reminded me that veterans are a unique population. Active duty – military culture, shared experiences of being broken, facing fear with grit and determination, group mind – is unique. There is nothing like it in civilian life. Nothing.

One of the most profound experiences during my week at Boulder Crest Retreat was learning Transcendental Meditation. I had very little experience with meditation with the exception of what we did in group therapy back home. At Boulder Crest, we practiced daily. Along with everything else I learned that week, I took TM home with me, and practiced it.

The week after I came home, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was my Boulder Crest experience which carried me through the following months. I moved through the entire experience so differently than I might have otherwise. I returned home remembering my bravery and courage. I leaned on that remembrance heavily during those hard months. I chose to make the entire experience a “kayak moment.”

Ironically, having only learned it, I stopped practicing TM during treatment. It would only be after I healed from surgery that I would begin again. It is a life altering practice. I was completely different when I meditated. I don’t care about the science of it, even though that is fascinating to me. I care about the results I experience. I’m calmer, clearer, more solid when I meditate.

Healing is an ongoing thing for me. I’m growing my spirituality. I’m growing my meditation practice again. I’m choosing to trust that the world around me isn’t a dangerous place where bad people lurk around every corner. I’m choosing to live with an open heart. That doesn’t mean that everything is sunshine and rainbows though – I can still be triggered, I still have nightmares, PTSD reactions to things. I still suffer from severe insomnia. Yet, I choose to walk in the world differently today. I choose to meet those moments of reaction which are of my lesser nature, which stem from the tragic story of my past, differently today. My dreams still overtake me unbidden but my waking hours are mine to live mindfully. As Boulder Crest Retreat urges its attendees: I want to Struggle Well.

For me, Boulder Crest Retreat was a bright star in my healing. A Nova, if you will. It continues to shine brightly for me. It will shine in my heart always.

I have an ability to drop in to the Buzz. In my thoughts it’s similar to the transporter used in Star Trek. I can dematerialize, I guess. It’s a gift that I’m finding not everyone has.

Honestly I think we are all holograms of the One Thing. We are born, we breathe, we think, we create … just as The Thing Itself does. Call It what you will: God, Jesus, Creator … we are That. We come from nothing, and all of a sudden, we are here. Just like thought. Just like emotion. Miraculous, mind boggling, breathtakingly beautiful.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything just to write, to escape, to visit the Buzz. The Buzz is Home, that great expanse of Nothing and Everything. I have been in what I call The Pause. Nothing much is happening lately. I’m not allowing myself to go Home. Why? A question for the ages. Why? The resistance I feel is palpable. It’s a gremlin which catches my attention so easily I might as well be a gnat. Any little thing draws my attention away from even a vague missing of the Buzz.

Today, I sit. Today, I have begun to step away from The Pause. I believe this is a moment by moment process.

Most people look at me as extremely dependable. Today, I want to show up for myself the way I show up for others. May this be my Truth.

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.

— Oscar Wilde.

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