I did walking meditation for the first time this week. In a group, all of us pacing in deliberate, serious-faced slow-mo, it felt like I was back in fourth form interpretive dance. "I am a piece of seaweed."
Our mindfulness classes are held at the Peace Place. There are pictures of the Dalai Lama and a sort of ramshackle social justice decor I really like, a Trade Aid vibe via Frida Kahlo. I was glugging a can of Diet Coke when I arrived this week but hurriedly hid it in my bag. It just seemed like turning up to meet Nelson Mandela in a thong or high-fiving Doris Lessing or something. (Yes, I know they're both dead. It was a metaphor).
Walking meditation was literally putting one foot in front of the other, but still I struggle to do it properly. I've learned meditation is not like stand-up paddleboarding. It is a sloppy kind of alchemy, one that does not demand strenuous self-improvement. It's about noticing what is. Even when "is" happens to be that I'm a crap meditator.
So this week when we are supposed to be sending loving kindness to someone we don't really know, instead I am thinking "So the European regulator fined Google $2.7 billion. Freaking heck. $2.7 BILLION".
I know I should be concentrating on paired words. Inhale. "Let". Exhale. "Go." But all I am thinking is Inhale Mark. Exhale Berry. Mark Berry, Mark Berry. I wonder if he's been anyone's meditation mantra before.