When I meditate alone during the weekdays, my tendencies toward OCD aren't apparent. But as I contemplated my first weekend meditation on Saturday morning, I was overly obsessed with the idea that my husband or daughter might come upon the spare bedroom (or as they call it, "Mom's Giant Closet"), see me there with my back to them (like the ending of The Blair Witch Project), and call out, "Whatcha up to?"
So in a bold preemptive strike, the minute I got up I poked my head out of my bedroom, leaned over the stairs and yelled, "I"m meditating for the next 20 minutes so nobody bother me!" (Note to self: Way to go. Perhaps there are better ways that are more in keeping with a mindful practice.)
Apparently that screeching announcement woke my daughter who began her day in ways that have never seemed so loud, so distracting, or so jarring as they did on this day.
Saturday's meditation was like standing in a swimming pool and trying to clear a space by pushing away the water; every time I emptied my mind of thoughts, new ones kept rushing in. It was the mental equivalent of bailing out a leaky rowboat.
Maybe this happened because I was anxious that I was "taking away family time" by concentrating on myself and being selfish instead of joining my husband and daughter downstairs.
Perhaps I felt I had to "meditate" really well so that I was deserving of this time to myself. Stupid thoughts I know...but they were there at the subconscious level.
So anxiety tinged with guilt colored my sitting, and it was a struggle. I was very, very conscious that my brain kept firing and sending thoughts like dance partners lined up for their turn at my attentions; I had to be ultra-vigilant to not get carried away and go waltzing off.
Strangely enough, I have absolutely no impressions of the meditation itself, only the struggle. I felt neutral about the whole experience -- neither good nor bad. But if every day were like today, I'd find it tough going to continue on. I hope tomorrow is better.