I meditated so deeply today that my body disappeared.
And I floated up out of my chair, up out of my office, leaving that small square of darkness behind. As I floated up I could see all the rooms, my daughters sleeping, my wife shifting in our bed, the dog by the window, the empty kitchen.
I could see through walls, see in the dark. And I kept going up.
More houses, my neighbors, some sleeping, some not sleeping, some fighting, some embracing. There were the cars on the road, the streetlights turning off, doors opening and closing, keys coming out of pockets.
I kept going up, now seeing the whole town, the parts I’ve never been to, the doors I’ll never knock on. Covers rolling back, breakfast burning, phones aglow.
But seeing into those homes was hard because a soft voice was telling me that now those people had to be considered.
Still higher, now other towns, other states, the ocean, the edges of places I cannot recognize, different faces, colors, textures, gestures, words, smells rising up and reaching me.
A little anxiety about my altitude, how far my feet are from the ground, that I’m starting to forget my neighbor’s names.
So much joy and suffering in these little boxes, these separate hearts, moving from room to room.
I close my eyes, reject the gift, allow the lightness to leave — no — I will it to.
And I descend.
Back in my room, hand on my heart.
It’s easier in the box, simpler on the ground.
I think that’s why we stay here.
