Failing / by Cyle Talley

I am trying to meditate. No, sorry. I am going to meditate. My intention and my action are one. Here I am, on a cushion on the floor, my legs crossed beneath me, hands folded in my lap, the afternoon sun pouring in and washing over me through the window- though I wonder if I shouldn't put a bit of sunscreen on? Anyway. The radio isn't on, the television isn't on. I can hear the birds. The children are outside (and supervised!) and they have a snack that I prepared so they won't come barging in demanding raisins or a banana or yogurt. Anyway. Is Sean actually watching them though? Is he playing with them, is he in awe of our little creations, or is he just standing by the fence and talking about football with the neighbor? God, I hate football. What an idiotic sport. Jack will not play it, no matter how he and Sean beg. Not over my dead body- no, no, not over my meditating body. Yes. Here I am. I am meditating. Deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, just like the woman at the spa taught me. That woman has an incredible ass. Pilates? Barre? Did she say she had two kids or three? If she has one more kid than I do and an ass that looks like it was carved out of marble, I am failing. It's all I can do to get Jack and Jamie outside for an hour every day so that I can do some yoga and meditate. Shit! Meditate! Focus Lauren! You can do this! You're wasting time! It'll be dinnertime soon! And how much laundry is there to do? What chapter in "Bridge to Terabithia" are Jamie and I in? God, I love that story. Shit! In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.