If we are always wanting to be somewhere else, everywhere we go will feel like a "waiting room".
When we are fully here, now...we discover that there is nowhere else we can ever truly "Be" other than here, now.
When we are fully Present, life takes on a sacred feeling.
And everywhere we go, even a waiting room, will feel like a "Temple".
Here is a beautiful blog post by "laurapratt33", from the Toronto Meditation Guide website...
"So I'm sitting in a hospital waiting room yesterday, stroking my son's sallow cheeks, fuming over all manner of bureaucratic inefficiencies, raging against the particular tumbling of events that has brought us to this place, when I notice a man beside me in a pool of serenity.
The man, who was on his own, was a study in breath. His chest expanded and emptied like the bladder of a bagpipe, a slow and steady rhythm that I-suddenly distracted from my seething occupations-found intoxicating. His eyes were open, but focused on things I could not see. His hands were still, obscuring the cover story of the newsmagazine resting in his lap.
He was the most peaceful person in the room.
Whether my fellow traveler was actually "meditating," in the official designation of the term, isn't important. I think that the label-happy lot of us are always looking to package stuff in neat boxes of comprehension, and struggle to feel comfortable around things that don't fulfill exact specifications. Anyway, no matter. The guy was engaged in an exercise that was clearly delivering him to a tranquil place. That's meditation, by my definition.
But the best part for me, as I struggled to make sense of the complications with my little boy's diabetes that had brought on this furious bout of illness, was the calming effect this man's presence had on me. Without knowing it, I had adopted his style of breathing, reaching deep into my belly with each draw in; letting my whole self melt a little with each release.
I breathed deeply. I focused all my attention on my breathing. I listened to my inhalations; I listened to my exhalations. When I felt my attention wander, I gently returned my focus to the activity at hand.
And, before I knew it, I was transported. The pastel-coloured waiting room with its wailing babies and knots of despair had disappeared for me. I had ventured into a space in my head where the views were endless and the air was pure.
Be gentle with yourself, say those who know better. Enough about the world is harsh and oppositional. Even if no one else is (especially if no one else is!), you have got to show kindness to your own self. I find my reserves for this kind of tenderness in my breathing, as I'm sure do most folks who indulge in this ancient ritual. Concentrating on its yawning regularity, losing myself in the blessed predictability of its infinity, I reach a state where I can imagine compassion. Even for myself.
Finn and I emerged from that waiting room and, eventually, that hospital, unscathed. His troubles were addressed, his health returned, his ruddiness reinstated. And I, too, enjoyed a certain transformation from the experience. I learned a new respect for the power of meditation, particularly for what I consider the ad-hoc wing of the practice. Like the kind a person might find herself doing on a hard plastic chair in the wretched bustle of a hospital waiting room."
