I’m sure this didn’t happen to you, but in living together 24x7 during the pandemic was clautrophbic. I was in trouble. Travels, adventures and events with friends and family vanished. ZOOM didn’t fix these though we certainly tried. With deepening angst, I dove headlong into what I do best—work.

Maybe other people have stronger backbones, but critical reviews terrorize me, hurling me into mental self-flogging. You see I envisioned that my book is perfect, that it will be relished by readers who will throw rose pedals at my feet as I make my way into the literary world.  But, when faced with  my own imperfections as reported by a someone who is reported to 'know' good writing, an instinctual reaction sets in, creating a vortex that amplifies every fault finding judgement and nullifies anything positive or useful. I bury my head under a pillow, trying to snuff out the exposed imperfections that persistently bounce among the neurons in my brain. I eventually exhaust myself and fall into unsettled asleep.

When I read James Parker’s article, “Ode to Not Meditating” in the April 2021 issue of the Atlantic, I smiled, gratified to encounter someone who recognizes the downside of meditation.  Advocates of the practice profess its ability to calm the mind and center one’s character, stopping the “the rawness and chaos of [our] own nature” as Parker so aptly states. God knows I’ve tried.