Last night, I
started the third term of the meditation course I’ve been attending since,
well, three terms ago.
In many ways, I’m
amazed I put myself through it. Not the meditation bit, which I find very useful, but
the act of going to classes. I have an in-built dislike for that sort of thing.
It brings back unhappy memories of the countless horrific dance lessons I had to do at drama school. I also find the social aspect difficult; outside of my friendship
circle – and we do stand in a circle
– I like to keep myself to myself.
(…says the
daily-blogging performer; work that one out.)
These negative
feelings have nothing to do with the meditation course itself, which is good*. I
apply them across the board. My wife often suggests I should attend yoga or Pilates
lessons to help my bad back. I know she’s right, but I don’t think I could do it.
I find it too intimidating. This is solely the fault of all those dance classes
in training; there’s nothing like three years of being the only man in a year
of seven women, and a non-dancer who's forced to dance daily, for lowering your
body-confidence and morale. It made me feel like Gollum.
The fact
meditation is inward looking rather than outwardly expressive allowed me to get
past my mental barrier. It’s more my cup of tea, and other such clichés. I also
don’t have to wear a leotard, which is a bonus. I don’t have to, but I still do. Despite the verbal warning.
*Except for the constantly varying end time, which can be anything from 8:15pm to 8:45pm. People who meditate mustn't have other commitments.