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there's a scene near the end of The Wachowskis' Speed Racer where Speed communes with his car in a last-ditch effort to win the race he was destined to win. in a blast of passion and skill, Speed flies through the last leg of the last lap with alacrity not seen since–gasp–his brother graced the track before his untimely disappearance. the Mach 5 makes it to the exceedingly long finish line, checkered white and red spread out before him in a psychedelic sheet of endless, single-minded will, whereupon the car swerves and tumbles end over end, its nose carving into the metal raceway, until finally, in a slow-motion moment of clarity, the car's suspension sags, giving in to the weight of the emotional moment. Speed Racer won the grand prix, exposing once and for all the dirty deeds of the syndicate and clearing the good name of the Racer family.
there's also milk.
every time i watch that scene i am almost brought to tears. i get this way with other media: the final scene of Don Giovanni, Story Corps stories on NPR, whenever Brooke Gladstone says how she really feels. recently–yes, only recently, i've started to feel it other times, too. when i disappoint a friend, when people nag me to do something at work, when i think about the slim chance of me ever getting anything right.
it's been a hard year, and the sun is yet again coming up late and going down early. this time around, i'm going to try holding it lightly. i'm going to practice treating myself gently. i've bounced around so many different solutions to all the anxiety and fear and exhaustion, never once believing i could simply let it all go. i'm really not sure i believe it now, but i'm willing to give it a try.
i started meditating in earnest a few months ago, and then i stopped. i chalked it up to bad mood, too busy, not motivated, etc. the one thing i learned from this recent spate of meditation is that there's no way i can force myself to do it. i can't even force myself to want to do it. all i can do is choose to arrange my life in such a way that the meditation comes naturally. not easily, but naturally.
i see it like digging a hole on the beach. down in the center, quite a ways, is something exquisite, frightening, subtle, elusive. all i have is my hands, and i can't just go straight down because all the sand around me fills up the hole as i scoop it out. instead, i make a shallow bowl. every new depth needs a pass to push the surrounding sand ever further out. i need to constantly maintain the whole area, making minute progress toward the bottom.
this week i'm off from work. i've come crashing into a hastily-planned vacation after five months (five months!) without a single day off. i don't know when i lost the awareness, but i'm grateful for having woken up.