the Neurosis of Coming Home

That moment is long and lasting, and extends many months to this present one, where I find myself staring not at fallen Bodhi leaves and small sandaled feet, but at the polished floor of a monastery in New York.

Here, I am waiting for the wind to blow through the room and take my mind with it. I am sitting in half lotus position with my thumbs locked and my back straight trying to ignore the growing ache in my shoulders and the golden artwork around me. This is my life after living abroad. Buddhist meditation retreats, blaring Tibetan pop and an unrelenting scrutiny of where I am and, more importantly, where I’ve been.

These are the things that pop into my head at unknown intervals, like flashbacks in their poignancy, taking me entirely out of the present and flung into that stinking sweaty mass of moments from the best time in my life. I try not to think of them, especially while sitting in my beginner’s half-lotus. I focus on my breath, seeing the light air flow into my body and out again. One. My gaze hovers an inch above the glossy waxed floor and my hands rest in light meditative fists on my crossed knees. Two. I feel the air refresh my senses, see the floor swimming in its colors, let the breath out.

The wind blows in through open windows, goes out the other side. I am still waiting for it to carry my mind along with it, and it will, but only back to the winds of India.