There are times when the story catches me like a ragged fingernail or an irritating tag inside my shirt.  I bump into a table corner and have to stop in sharp brief pain of how stupid I was, or my shirt gets snagged on a metal shard of the past.  Sometimes I can pause, let the movie run in my head, and other times it takes over the brain and I’m distracted for hours.  It’s like my life turns into velcro and catches on everything. 

I hear meditation is a practice of recognizing those moments and shifting the power of being snagged.  If I’m out in the field of Pure Comfort, I can see these made-up fantasies and fear mongers as bubbles.  And whether they seem filled with water tears, or cigarette smoke confusion and stink, or even tiny wishes, I can touch them gently and poof–they sprinkle over the grass and disappear.

Here and now I kindly pop all those distracting bubbles of loneliness and only see the tiny violets, pure green soft grass, and hear the spring song birds calling me to love.