Parenting is a rollercoaster. A beautiful, awkward, wonderful, disastrous rollercoaster.
Micro meditation is a form of mindfulness practice. It’s a way to hit pause, refresh, clear cache, to revitalise your mind and freshen up your day. It’s like going to the wash room and picking yourself up with a splash of cold water.
Set aside a minute for yourself, mentally dropping whatever you’re doing. Don’t wait for the perfect moment, there won’t be a better one.
Stop whatever you’re doing.
Shut your eyes.
Focus on your breath.
Mindfully take three rounds of in and out breaths.
Gently open your eyes and resume what you were doing.
You’ve just created your sanctuary, one you can return to any time you wish.
Saying no — clearly, firmly, when you know you can’t make the commitment or the time — is a kindness.
To get around this problem, I sat down at a busy pedestrian intersection with a pen and paper and made a note of everything that made Egyptian men about my age different from me. How they walked, how they used their hands, the clothing they wore, their facial expressions, the volume they’d speak at, how they’d groom themselves, and much more. I found that I needed to let some stubble grow out, ditch my bright light clothes for darker and heavy ones (despite the temperature), exchange my trainers for dull black shoes, ditch my hat (I never saw anyone with hats), walk much more confidently, and change my facial expressions.
Over and over again I sail towards joy, which is never in the room with me, but always near me, across the way, like those rooms full of gayety one sees from the street, or the gayety in the street one sees from a window. Will I ever reach joy? It hides behind the turning merry-go-round of the traveling circus. As soon as I approach it, it is no longer joy. Joy is a foam, an illumination. I am poorer and hungrier for the want of it. When I am in the dance, joy is outside in the elusive garden. When I am in the garden, I hear it exploding from the house. When I am traveling, joy settles like an aurora borealis over the land I leave. When I stand on the shore I see it bloom on the flag of a departing ship. What joy? Have I not possessed it? I want the joy of simple colors, street organs, ribbons, flags, not a joy that takes my breath away and throws me into space alone where no one else can breathe with me, not the joy that comes from a lonely drunkenness. There are so many joys, but I have only known the ones that come like a miracle, touching everything with light.