I’ve become rather fixated on meditation lately. Not, like, in the sense that I’m doing it at all regularly (daily practice what?), but in the sense that I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and reading about it, and writing about it.
The sad conundrum of being a writer is that you have to actually have experiences in order to write about them. And I can only speak for myself, but half the reason I like to write is to avoid reality. That makes meditation either the perfect subject or possibly the worst in the world, given the whole “try to be present” thing. At any rate, I can think of worse subjects to have to experience and then write about. Like Burning Man. (No offense.)
Well, in an effort to be more authentic, I’ve had a recent personal goal of attending at least one sangha or meditation gathering a week. I’m slowly compiling a dilettante’s guide to free or cheap meditation groups in San Francisco. Stay tuned for that.
Tonight I dropped in at the SF Buddhist Center in the Mission. I’ve been to this one before and had a tepid response to it, which on the Buddhist reaction scale fits neatly somewhere between aversion and desire. I had the same response tonight, more or less.
The space is lovely. One of those tucked-away little spots just off the lively Valencia corridor, and they’ve done a bang-up job of making it look, feel and smell Buddhist. Whatever that means.
But for me, the scene just takes itself a little too seriously. Or maybe it was only that one guy, Elliot or whatever. Either way, I don’t get down with the whole “let’s sit in a circle and each say one thing” tactic. It’s a little too reminiscent of the yoga cult I used to belong to.
I like to just slip in and out unnoticed. Maybe this says something about my relationship to commitment, and life.
Hmm, I think I learned something tonight.
(Article I wrote for examiner.com, if you’re interested in the details.)
