Ants

One of my meditation teachers from college used to describe an advanced state of meditation. Sitting in lotus position on the floor of a small rustic cabin in the wilderness, during an hours-long practice, at times he would feel lines of red ants crawling up and down his body. The practice was to stay with the meditation. To notice the ants, feel their tiny legs on his skin, acknowledge the prickly sensations, but to remain present with the meditation practice. Sit with the discomfort. Come back to the breath. The first time he described this, I laughed. If that isn’t an example of an advanced meditator, I don’t know what is. 

I couldn’t help but bring this story to mind yesterday. 

One of my many roles as a wellness practitioner in the college environment is to lead brief mindful meditations for notoriously stressed out students. Yesterday I decided to lead a brief breathing practice for approximately 140 graduate students over Zoom. No problem. 

I was set up in the back room of my house with the door closed and the white noise machine purring. The white noise machine is an indicator to my partner and young children that I am in a meeting where I cannot be disturbed. As opposed to the other types of meetings where it might be OK, or even seem normal at this point, to have a child walk through the background or whisper on the sidelines, “psssst, mommy, can I have a snack?” 

Yet. About a minute into the meditation – remember I’m leading the meditation, not just participating – I hear my older son’s raised voice. It’s clear he had just returned home and was now having a heated conversation with my partner. Deep breaths. It was not one of those times where I could calmly turn off my camera and audio and quickly tell them to keep it down.

The voices get louder. I’m trying to stay focused. I’m also wondering how much my audience can hear through the tiny microphone attached to my cheap headphones. I immediately remember the story of the ants. Keep your attention, notice the distractions, stay in the moment. It was a brief breathing practice, and I brought it to a close without much ado. 

However, I couldn’t help but wonder how much the audience had been aware of the distraction. Later, the students were sent to break-out rooms and I had a chance to ask my colleague if they had heard my family in the background. Without hesitation or sugar-coating, she answered, “yes.” Yup. That’s what I thought. We both laughed. Thus is our lives right now. 

It is a metaphor for so much. How can we continue to put one foot in front of the other each day, while acknowledging — and not getting derailed by — the ants crawling all over us. What I find most powerful about the pandemic is the shared experience. Not since 1918 has all of humanity been united in such a way. There are so many human experiences out there to which many of us cannot relate. Yet this is one we can all relate to. We understand that life is presenting us with challenges on a daily basis, some more than others, in a time when health and social justice inequities are highlighted at the forefront of our awareness. 

What I appreciated about that mindfulness moment yesterday was the acknowledged, collective, deep breath that we are in this together. There was no judgement. We can name it, laugh about it, and keep moving forward. My biggest hope through all of this is that we will be able to maintain a more collective sense of well-being as humans, and continue to challenge individualism and competition. I’m feeling a slight shift. Are you?