Mindfulness
The Bungalow
by Ckrista Mari
Once I was a being on a boat, lost in a sea of isolation. Tumultuous waves crashed against the creaking, withering wood that made up the vessel that carried me. Sometimes the water was calm, and I could see in the distance, land formations. Such a calm could last ages as I struggled to devise a paddle. And then, just as quickly as it calmed, the storm of waves would again swell. And crash into me. Into my boat soaking me to the bone. Cold and unyielding. Until, one day, my boat just fell apart. I could have thanked Poseidon that the sea was calm that day, or I could have cursed him for the days that came. At first, I didn’t care that my boat had sunk—for I, being a fish at heart, could swim beautifully. But soon, as the summer sun began to set, my other fishes turned back into mermen and returned to their unbroken vessels. I, this lonely wet thing, was left to tread water—alone. To my dismay, I discovered that I was too heavy to hold me above the water. I was drowning. For I am not truly a fish. I am a woman.
The water began to lap above my chin. I lasted through the night.
A new day arrived. Some other people went by me on their vessels. The saw me struggling. I saw them see me see myself struggling. They could not help me.
The water began to lap at my nose. I held my breath as another dark, cold night came and went.
A new day arrived, yet I was drowning. I could not hold my breath any longer. The water covered my mouth. I could not cry out to God anymore. I could only float and look longingly at the land formations that seemed so very far away.
And then I heard it. Undulating along the tides like a beacon. A buoy. Floating towards me. White and blue and blinking. With every fiber in my being—this broken, dying being that I was—I reached for the buoy, and as I grasped it, pulling myself from my watery grave, I cried out to my Lord.
The buoy took me. Defying the natural state of things, it floated against the surf, into the tide, dragging me onto the sandy rubble of the beach that had seemed so very far away. I had arrived. But I was not yet alive.
The buoy had brought me as far as it could. It in itself was a miracle. It anchored me back to the place I belonged. It gave me back my ability to stand, to walk. I was no fish—nor was I just a riff-raff. I was a person, but not quite a whole one. Wanderlust set in. I collected other persons. I collected pebbles from the beach. I built shelters where I spoke quietly and sung loudly to my Lord. The beach was a sea of people. I was beginning to stumble. I had learned my lessons from the sea and sometimes I sat staring at it longingly. In reverie. I knew that I could not go back, but I could not stay where the buoy had brought me either. I was trapped on an island my spirit had outgrown.
I transformed into a siren and my wail was heard by all. It had finally come. The waves of grief I have been trying to outswim. The shelters I tried to build had come crashing down. The people I collected revealed themselves to be shallow—pools not deep enough for me to dwell in and my wails drowned out the voice of God.
Where was I to go now?
And so, I remained. Complacent. Aware that this was not enough. Wondering where the path was to go forward. Here on this island. Here in my tet-a-tet with myself. Here, surrounded, yet still alone. With air above and around me and not even a whisper of a cloud in sight. I felt like a trapped bird. A shipwrecked soul.
Soon, I abandoned the beach. I amputated myself from almost all of the other inhabitants. I built my shelter around me. I closed my shades. And once again, I isolated myself in my structure. I told myself I was safe. I thought that I was, but I was also not alive. I was not living. The happiness I briefly felt had ebbed. The joy had blown out. What was left were the seeds of anger, fear, and regret. My tears watered these seeds until they became giant cypress-like turrets that reinforced the fortress I had assembled around my being. I was disconnected. My shelter—my home—my fortress sat apart from my society and I could no longer break out. The shade thrown from my trees of despair had begun to darken my home and only a thin sheet of light remained. When all hope was lost, when I was again desperate, shaken, dying, withering, I asked God to show me the way. To please send me another buoy. Nothing happened. The light dimmed some more. Some people tried to help me. They came knocking. Some even came in. Some abandoned me. I waited for God to send me another buoy. I sat with only faith left.
One day, a woman came. She sat outside my window and rapped on it—signaling me to open up. The creaking, withering wood struggled to open, but I was ready to receive this visitor. She told me her name. She spoke of a gift she had been given. She asked of the pain I had received. She offered me this gift. I desired it greatly and eagerly held my hand out the window. In my hand she placed a seed. I looked at my palm, confused at this tiny morsel no bigger than a pebble. It was unremarkable and unpromising. The woman ignored my reaction and instead told me about her gift. She talked to me about my pain. She asked me to keep the seed safe. She promised she’d be back.
Some days passed. I was in the shallow. The dark. But the wind had begun to blow, knocking the shade loose around my bungalow and letting the light in. The seed sat in a jar. Bereft of any comforts. Unnoticed. Awaiting.
The woman came back. She told me more abut this gift she had been given and this time she gave it a name: “Mindfulness.” She talked to me about my pain. She promised to come back and she asked me to think about the gift while she was gone.
A few more days came and went. I thought about the woman’s gift. I wondered when I too would receive it. I began to think less about my pain, my fear, my regret. I began to notice the seed. A floor board had come loose and through it pushed rich, dark, black sandy soil. With my hands I scooped some, dropped the seed into my cupped hand, rolled it in the soil, and returned it to the jar.
The woman came back. This time, I asked her about the gift and I told her I was trapped. She looked around and nodded her head. I told her I could not find my way out. Out of the grief, the fear, the regret. I told her I could not find my way to safety. I told her I was not free. We explored the paths that I had taken that had led me to my solitary moat. They were legions. We explored my crafts, my ingenuities, my aptitudes—what a marvel they have been to behold and to experience. But still, I am not free. Still, I cannot find the path. Still, I cannot figure the way out. And so, she went. This time I was left feeling still more hopeless.
In the days that passed the seed had begun to dry out. I could not get to the water I could see outside. My tears watered my trees of anger but could not water my little seed in its jar. In my fury, I wrenched on the window frame to close off the world. I put all my weight down upon it, but it would not budge. I was not heavy enough anymore to shut the world out. I had begun to inter-exist. My fury blew out and I sat solemnly by the window and waited. I put my seed there beside me. I could hear a child’s laughter float through air towards me—it undulated along the tide like a beacon.
The woman retuned. I told her about my fury. I told her I was stuck. She sat with me and cultivated understanding. She gifted me a canteen of water. And on this canteen was the word: “meditation” for which she told me was necessary for watering my seed. She again asked about my pain. She asked about my mindfulness. She told me to find humor, nourishment, and reflection. When she left, I listened to the children play and I laughed with them. I nourished myself from the fruit that grew outside my window. I hung back up my mirrors and faced the wailing siren inside. I needed to quiet her—to embrace and hush her—so that I could hear the laughter better. So that I could hear the voice of God. In the woman’s absence I did these things and I watered my seed. “in; out. Deep; slow. Calm; ease. Smile; release.” I am breathing in now—knowing I am breathing in. When I breathe out, I am aware I am breathing out. I am solid now—I am becoming free.
The woman continues to return. She and a few others have not abandoned me in my bungalow of throwing shade and creaking, withering wood. They are not my buoys. They are not my seeds. Or my water. Or my safety or shelter. They are a part of my joy, though. They help me to nurture understanding and compassion within myself. They help me to remember to nourish myself. These visitors come to find me trapped but only see the freedom which I resist. So, I water my seed. I nourish my body. I meditate. I practice mindfulness. Less and less I water my giant cypresses of anger, fear, and regret and I now try to mindfully water the seeds of love, serenity, and hope.
The bungalow is not my home. It is just a way station I built because I was lost. It took me quite a while to realize that my window there is but a doorway. When I am ready, I will step out onto the path that I am constructing. With the help of the woman’s teachings, God, and with the practice of mindfulness I will set upon the path that leads me out. I think, perhaps, that I am already on it. But I don’t forget the sea of isolation. And I haven’t forgotten the buoy, or the pebbles, or the people, or the wailing siren inside of me waiting to be allowed to scream again. Or the cold dark nights.
I look forward to the path forward as much as I welcome relief from the path left behind. But now, I strive to dwell in the ultimate—I live in the Here and Now. Watering my seed. Appreciating its impermanence. Appreciating its simplicity yet the complex and paramount impact it has on the living. That it has on me. The seed is mindfulness. And concentration on this and the suchness of the world around me is the vessel to peace and happiness. The journey truly is all I need.
About the Author
Ckrista Mari is a freelance writer in Portland, Oregon, and focuses on writing inspirational pieces on recovery from trauma and addiction. She has been on her own healing journey for over eight years and uses her experience and story to help others with similar experiences.
