Knitted Barriers to Meditation

The following is an attempt to explain how I feel when I meditate. I am in a constant battle with a knitting old lady, she is quite annoying and very accommodating of all my delinquent thoughts.

“For the final time, these thoughts…do not attach to them, do not invite them into Leslie’s mind. You may greet them, but at all costs you must refuse entry…your job is to simply NOT SEEM inhospitable.”

“But you’re saying we are inhospitable.”

“Well yes, but we needn’t appear so. Feign interest, compassion, whatever ….anything to be rid of them.”

The consciousness of Leslie Renee Russell looks at the elderly lady rocking leisurely on the front porch of Leslie’s mind. It had seemed a brilliant idea; hire an elderly consciousness to politely police Leslie’s thoughts during meditation. She had seemed a perfect fit with minimal costs, only requiring a rocker, yarn and knitting needles. But this woman had proven far more stubborn than any of Leslie’s deepest insecurities. Even Leslie’s toe fetish was easier to control than this this abhorrently kind looking woman soothingly rocking to and fro. 

“No, you hired me to handle thoughts—and I shall do so by my own discipline.”

Leslie’s consciousness looks down in exasperation. That statement was surprisingly firm for such a fragile woman almost completely engulfed by her own knitting. The knitting rustles as Leslie’s thought on American Consumerism stretches with devilish contentment in the ladies lap—purring in perfect imitation of a stray kitten.

“No this is my point! You can’t invite these thoughts into our home, let alone your lap! If you feed them and stroke them we shall never be rid of these infernal strays!!!”

Consciousness grabs American Consumerism by the scruff of the neck and unceremoniously casts it off the porch of the mind. But, Leslie’s thought on Matt (her ex-boyfriend) had been waiting in the wings. He jumps up and after several rotations settles in his newly claimed territory, eyeing the yarn with keen feline interest.

“I don’t want to be rid of them...like them. They keep me company whilst I knit.”

Consciousness looks down at what appears to be a massive knitted snake.

“What in god’s name is that?”
“It’s a scarf for Lefty.”

“Lefty”… “Lefty”…. the audacity of this woman! The Left Hemisphere has been a plague upon the Consciousness’s existence for years, a hindrance to almost all meditation sessions. Unable to relinquish control, naming every thought that comes calling, “Lefty” needs a gag not a scarf.

“This is outrageous, it’s as if you’re running a homeless shelter!”

As if on queue, thoughts of Leslie’s future children, come giggling and gallivanting onto the porch carrying Leslie’s high school insecurities on their backs.

“No! You’re not welcome here, shoo shoo…off this porch!”

The thoughts gaze up at the Consciousness standing strict and foreboding—hands on her hips. Then their eyes flit to the old lady on the rocker. She slightly nods. They smirk, blaze past Consciousness, pause to remove their muddy shoes, then skip gaily into the mind.

“This isn’t working. You need to leave!” Consciousness screams, unable to control the quiver in her voice.

“What are you going to do out-source me?” the lady smiles kindly but she knows she has struck a chord.
They had tried to outsource her many times. Mexican consciousnesses had brought their peyote, Amsterdam hippies their marijuana, countless substances from countless countries. Nothing had subdued the thoughts; many had simply fueled and enraged them.

“I think with the proper love and chocolate Leslie can learn to embrace these thoughts.”
Chocolate! Chocolate! You can’t give Leslie’s fear of rejection sugar! It will run rampant!
Utterly exasperated Consciousness drops to the steps of the porch. Four of Leslie’s future dreams lightly flutter to her shoulder singing as merrily as blue birds in fall. Consciousness puts her head in her hands, Leslie’s First Kiss, First Crush, and First Heartbreak crawl up her arm like ladybugs on a leaf. Leslie’s Creative Aspiration nuzzles between Consciousness’s hands, drooling profusely on her knee…begging to be loved wagging its tail furiously.

Consciousness looks at the old lady, the old lady looks at Consciousness. Eye contact is never broken, intensified by the slow creak of the chair. The old lady knows she isn’t going anywhere, for in her back pocket is the American torte system. The possible wrongful termination suit on the grounds of ageism is the private threat between them. Thusly empowering the rest of Leslie’s dreams, memories, fears, and anxieties to slowly creep from the forest of The Collective Unconsciousness and happily take refuge in the very hospital mind of Leslie Rene Russell.