I was engaged in incontinent crying, crying that won’t stop until the well is dry.  Crying that happens at the most inconvenient times, like when there are witnesses.  I was well into such a crying jag one night as I met with my writing group.

Of the five members, two are former nuns, one is a Methodist minister, two are certified life coaches.  I was the only member neither religious nor coached, but I was sorely in need of some religion and coaching as I slogged through my mother’s final illness.

My friends said, more or less, ever so nicely, couched in euphemisms and accompanied by much petting, that I had better get a grip.  They suggested that I meditate.

Meditation had never held any appeal to me.  Although I wear a slothful body, I actually possess a quite active brain. My brain performs aerobic thinking.  It can do merry cartwheels and effortless back flips.

But at night, my brain shifts into a guilt/remorse/dread mode the minute my head hits the pillow.  My anxiety ratchets up to Mach 5, and my mind circles the track over and over again.

Deepok Chopra says,” Meditation is not a way of making your mind quiet. It’s a way of entering into the quiet that’s already there.”   This sounds kind of like death to me, or at the very least, coma.  A yogi described meditation as “being awake inside without being aware of anything except awareness itself.”  Like watching golf?

But my friends were so sincere in their pleas for me to seek tranquility in the alpha state.  And since they weren’t weeping uncontrollably as I was, and they would sleep that night, and I wouldn’t, I had to admit that they just might have something.  What were those people in ashrams, who sat with their legs braided in full lotus position for hours and hours, doing inside their heads, I wanted to know.   I was eager to see the play book.

So I called my friend Christine who meditates.  She said, “I’m not good at it, but I try to meditate every day.  I have the most success when I focus on my breathing.  When I breathe in, I see a purple balloon inflating, and when I exhale, the balloon is pink. I can then see clouds floating across my third eye with all my issues.”  Not only did this description ramp up my anxiety—you mean I can be bad at meditation?—but it also confused me.  What line of my trifocals would that third eye look out of?

I needed more, maybe a demonstration.  So I went where all would-be shamans went—the Internet.  I googled How the Hell do you meditate? which yielded  thousands of hits.

The site with video instruction caught my attention, so I clicked the link.  What appeared was a guy –I’ll call him “Om” — who had the whole Buddhist package, which I could clearly see outlined by his lycra spandex yoga pants.  He was British, which is to say he needed orthodontia, and he calmly described the preparation for meditation.

He pointed to a serene woman who demonstrated the cosmic mudra.  This hand gesture is achieved by using the dominant hand, palm up, to hold the other hand, also palm up, and then lightly touching thumbs.  If you can’t quite get the visual on this, imagine making a hand heart, but make the heart down near your crotch.

“It can be painful at first . . .”

The composed woman gracefully transitioned from one posture to another, from a Full Lotus to Half and Quarter Loti, onto the Burmese and finally the Seiza.  The British narrator cautioned that although the Full Lotus is by far the most stable, it can be painful at first but will certainly get more comfortable with time.  Like foot-binding.  The lovely woman never demonstrated my favorite position, which is sitting on the floor, legs spread eagle, back hunched over a bowl of potato chips.

After the Brit’s ten-minute explanation about how to prepare, I was ready to learn how to meditate and stop crying and fretting and to start sleeping.   I got into the position, sort of, and followed Om’s instructions.

“Now,” Om intoned, “just breathe.  Breathe in and breathe out.  Breathe normally.  Count one for every inhalation until you get to ten.  Then start over.  You can do this for hours.”  And I’m thinking, I’ve been breathing in and out for, well, sixty-some years.

But I tried, really I did.  I tried it sitting up until my hips ached and my stomach growled.  I sucked on the pink balloon.  I tried to clear my mind, but I couldn’t stop churning the what ifs and the if onlys and the why did I’s.  My third eye was focused on what I was going to put on my sandwich.

I tried it at night.  I couldn’t get through one single breath without planning something:  what I was going to wear in the morning, where I’d take the car for an oil change, what shows I would DVR.  While my two eyes were wide open, my third eye stayed stubbornly shut.

I finally had to admit that I didn’t want to shut down the circus, that I love the flying trapese in my head. I just wasn’t willing to concentrate on my breathing when I could, instead, concentrate on the ending of Mad Men.  And those monkeys in my mind?  They are my monkeys, and I love them.

Om, here is my pharmacological mantra:  “Give me some drugs.”    I say it over and over and over again until my doctor acquiesces.  Bring on the Ambien and the Zoloft.

May your medication bring you peace, happiness, and bliss.” Namaste.

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While this piece is a joke, meditation is not.  The most serene people I know meditate. 

I highly recommend  3030 Harrison Avenue in Westwood

owned by Michelle Red Elk and Rob Jefferson.

Visit their website:  http://www.thefourdirectionsstudio.com/

”Meditation classes provide an opportunity for presence and to experience life to its fullest, both in formal meditation and in daily life.”  Four Directions website