Meditation Bootcamp (Part Three of a Multi-part Story)



This is the third part of a multi-part story.  To read the first part, click here.

Opening meditation.  

It is made clear that this is meditation bootcamp.  You, Sondra Stinglash, Ms. I-Meditate-Every-Day-Most-Days-Twice, Ms. Liar-Liar-Pants-On-Fire, are so out of your league here.  We will wake at 5:30 am.  We will begin meditating at 6 am for one hour, the first hour of our daily non-stop meditation marathon, stopping only to eat and only doing that twice a day.  No snacks.  No naps.  We will NOT be switching cushions or lying down or coughing or breathing or any other monkey business in the meditation hall.  We will not be writing or reading or looking at anyone or anything.  The only verbs we will be performing during this retreat are: meditating, sleeping, eating, walking, urinating and defecating.  

Got that?  I want to go home.

If you have never been here before (I haven’t)  then you need to meet us in the meeting room after this session for a very important mandatory newcomer orientation.  Of course.  Of course.  I will be there.

But I was so uncomfortable that last hour, the first of my too-many-to-count hours of sitting-just-sitting.  I must find a bolster, cushion, pillow, chair, meditation bench combo that works for me otherwise I might just not make it.  Seriously.  I. might. just. not. make. it.

In record time, I nabbed me a meditation bench from the meditation bench parking area and set it up on my cushion.  Now, to the meeting room.  I glide in my slippers, gazing down as I make my way to the mandatory meeting.   

I arrive, only to find the door closed.  The meditation bench nab (It couldn’t have been more than two minutes!) took too much time and cost me the mandatory orientation meeting.  I can’t knock.  This is a silent meditation retreat.  I can’t open the door.  What if everyone looks at me?  

I go to my room.  I want to go home.

I am missing all the important stuff.  This is the meeting where they tell you the protocol so that you don’t accidentally do something that is irreverent. inadmissible. loud.  Now I will accidentally do all those things.  And I can’t ask, you know, find out what I missed.  Because I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SPEAK.

I do the only thing I can.  I curl up in the fetal position on the bed and cry softly, reminding myself that I signed up for this, that I paid money for this, that it is isn’t going to get any better and that the whole registration thing was a sign that I shouldn’t have come here and that it is only natural for me to feel very very sorry for myself.  

I want to go home.

All cried out, and feeling more than a wee bit silly, I get up, get myself together and grab my little notebook that I wasn’t supposed to bring, but did anyway; I grab a pen and go upstairs to the entryway where the schedule hangs.  Galvanized, I begin to copy down the schedule into my notebook.  Look at me.  I am getting with the program.  I have got the schedule now.  I will be on time for everything.  I will be in the know.  I will be a good little meditator.  I can do this.  

In the middle of writing down the schedule, the lights go out on me and someone says  (SAYS.  Do the rules not apply to you, dude?)  “You are supposed to be in the meditation hall right now.”

Shit!  

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

Nice touch with turning out the lights.  Very well played.  

I want to go home.

(End part three.  To be continued.)  



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A Story, in Multiple Parts, in which this is the Second Part


Dear Readers,

This is the second part of a multiple part story.  Please be a good little blog reader and read the first part first.  

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash




So, I go to the nice little silent meditation retreat, put on by the nice Canadians, lovely people who want me to be there and everything is going to be great.  Everything is going to be fine and aren’t I happy that I ignored that nagging feeling of doom I got about the whole thing when my registration got fouled up?  Yes I am.  I am going to have an enlightening experience- all silent and spiritual and life changing for ONE WHOLE WEEK. Yipee!

I show up, park my little liberal car neatly in between the other cars with the Canadian license plates, all lined up orderly by a bunch of enlightened, nice people. 

I go in.

Registration taken care of.  Room assigned.  Karma Yoga assignment gotten.  Karma Yoga?  Yep.  Karma Yoga.  Turns out to be a really pleasant sounding term for “job.”  In my case “crap job.”  My job, which I will be required to perform throughout the retreat, is simply called “bathrooms.”  Note the plural.  The retreat manager happily gives me the two page laminated instruction sheet in order that I perform the job perfectly (no pressure) and asks me to please memorize it and then give it back to him later that night. (no pressure)  Seriously?  I have to memorize these instructions?  I paid $300 for this?!  I take the instructions from him and smile sweetly.

Sprinkle bowl thoroughly with powder cleanser, include all interior aspects of bowl.  Brush bowl thoroughly with toilet brush.  Flush.  Sprinkle bowl again and let sit.  Spray all exterior surfaces of the toilet thoroughly with the general cleaning spray blah blah blah...

The instructions are detailed.  And not very fun to read.  I am supposed to have this memorized and give this back to the manager TONIGHT?  Seriously?  I can’t memorize this shit. 

I bring the instructions to my room, leave them there, unpack and go to dinner. 

Dinner!  

Dinner is lovely.  The food is good!  The conversation (we are still allowed to speak) is pleasant.  


Beautiful bell sound!  Announcement Time!  

A few announcements before we go into silence.  It seems that there is are two cars that must be moved immediately.   Cars parked inappropriately.  Cars parked incorrectly.  Bad spots.  Bad cars.  Bad people who parked in the bad spots.  (Not exact words, but it was totally implied.)    First car:  plate number: #NOT-YOUR-CAR.  Sigh of relief.  Second car:  plate number:  #YOUR-CAR.  All eyes on me.  


Seriously?  

Move your cars as quickly as possible and then try, just you try to make it back to the meditation hall in time for our very important and reverent opening meditation and we aren’t giving you two suckers any extra time.  (Not exact words, but you get the idea.)  

I walk as fast as my little slippered feet can carry me to my room, grab my keys and speed walk to the front door where I put on my outside shoes.  There is another woman feverishly putting on her outside shoes, keys in hand.  We walk out together.  The light is dim.  I offer my arm to help guide her down the stairs.  She ignores the gesture and says, “I only parked there because you did.”

Nice.

I move my car and wait for her to move her car so that we can walk back together.  You know why?  Because I am totally a nice person, that’s why.

But she, the other bad parker, does not move her car.  This is because, as it turns out, her car is stuck in the mud.  Stuck deep.  She is not sure what to do.  I can’t help, other than lending moral support, which is really no help to her at all, so we decide to walk back inside where she will tell her sad story to someone with the requisite amount of muscle mass with which to help her.

In the meditation hall, I slide onto a cushion as quietly as I can so as to not disturb the opening meditation, which is already, of course, in progress.


To be continued.






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An Open Letter to the Year 2011, from Sondra Stinglash





Dear 2011,

I am concerned about you.  How are you faring with all of this?  All of the over-eager, nary-a-glance-backward goodbyes.  The casting away of a perfectly good year, with all the requisite seasons and months.  Four of the former and twelve of the latter- you delivered what was promised.  You made that trip around the sun in just the right number of days.  365 of them.  Or was there an extra one for the leap thing?  I don’t remember, but you did well.  You delivered all the days you were supposed to.  You were solid and dependable that way.  But now you are quite literally yesterday’s news.  So 2011.  

Don’t let the door hit you in the rear as you leave.

We shed the old like a pair of worn sneakers, and welcome in the swaddling year with open, eager arms.  

You are our favorite year now, 2012.  Our darling.

I feel badly for you.  It must be tiring to hear about our plans for the new year; we are going to lose weight, start exercising, eat right.  2012 is the year we get that job, meet the love of our lives, travel the world, read War and Peace, go back to school, solve that theorem, write that memoir, change that lightbulb...  You remember when we felt that way about you?  We had such high hopes.  

I hear you sneering, “That’s all anyone wants to talk about.  New Year.  New Year. New Year.”  That snarky voice really doesn’t suit you, 2011.  But I understand.  It must be hard to be

So. Completely. Over.  

I just wanted to check in- see how you are doing, you know, offer my thanks.  You did all right, 2011; you gave us all the days you were supposed to, but this is the way of it.  You are the husband who snores and leaves his dirty underwear on the floor.  2012 is the on-line profile that promises candlelight dinners, walks on the beach and all that kayaking.  It’s hard to compete with that.

But I really did appreciate the effort you made.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash



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A story, in multiple parts, in which this is the first part. The story gets better as it goes along. I promise. Stick with it.



Once in a while, you are the keeper of a story so good that each time you tell it, your audience, fighting back tears of laughter, begs you to write it down.  This, my friend, is not that story.  But it is a long story.  And because of that, lately, when I tell it, I find that at about the midpoint of the story, I get tired of telling it and I start glossing over details, which makes it a less good story.  So, I am writing it down, folks.

This story starts with our heroine attempting to better herself by registering for a week long silent meditation retreat.  This is a good thing.  The retreat is close to home, but is run by people out of town.  It is run by people out of the country, actually.  It’s run by Canadians.

Now, I am ashamed to admit this, but it seems that I have a bias- a stereotype, when it comes to those folks north of the border.  Guilty of generalization, I know, but my impression of Canadians is that they are, well, nice.  Nice, friendly, helpful, all healthy with their free healthcare- this is my impression of Canadians.  So, I was ill-prepared for my interaction with the particular Canadian who handled my registration.  


The website, it seems, botched my registration, or at least it seemed to have registered me for a different retreat than I wanted, with different dates, a retreat-that-didn’t-exist.  This was troublesome because this retreat-that-didn’t-exist cost me over $300.  And the solution proposed to me by the woman in charge of registration, who couldn’t find a record of my registration, was to re-register.  I was not eager to do this because my credit card had already been charged for the retreat-that-didn’t-exist.  What I wanted, and this didn’t seem unreasonable to me, but you be the judge, was for the charge for the retreat-that-didn’t-exist to be taken off my credit card so that I could re-register for a retreat that did, in fact, exist.  

In my mind, this was simple, but I couldn’t seem to get the registration woman to understand what I was talking about.  Finally, after weeks went by with no action or understanding, I decided to just ask for my money back and forget the whole thing, thank you very much.  As soon as I sent the e-mail saying that I was no longer interested in the retreat, I received a flurry of e-mails and phone calls.  The message was loud and clear.  It was a misunderstanding!  We want you to come to our retreat!  We are Canadians!  We are nice!

I signed up.


(End part one.  Yes, I know that this first part was kind of disappointing.  It is to be continued.  Stick with it.  Part two is here.)





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Love Notes





Dear Sondra,

If you were a porch light, I would be the moth who is drawn to you.

Fondly,

Howard

----------

Dear Howard,


If I were a sentence, you would be my exclamation point.


Sincerely,


Sondra Stinglash


----------


Dear Sondra,


If you were the weather report, you would be unseasonably warm. 


Fondly,


Howard

----------


Dear Howard,

If you were a writing implement, you would be a fine fountain pen from which polished words flow effortlessly.  Also, you would not leak.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear Sondra,

If you were a PC, I would be your Norton Utilities.

Fondly,

Howard

----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a bowl of jelly beans, you would be all the flavors, even the spicy ones.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear  Sondra,

If you were a school board budget, you would be increased funding for music and art.

Fondly,

Howard

 ----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a four hour stretch of time, you would be a relaxed summer afternoon spent by the seashore, wearing beachcombers and hunting for shells. 

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear Sondra,

If you were a shoe, I would be the laces, hugging you tightly.

Fondly,

Howard


----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a pair of shoelaces, I would be the little plastic ends that encircle you, helping you glide through life's many eyelets.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

------------

Dear Sondra,

If you were the little plastic ends encircling my laces, I would be the scotch tape that holds you together when you fray.

Fondly,

Howard


-----------






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Wherein Sondra Stinglash Makes a Comeback and Explains Her Brush With Clown's Disease





Callithump?  Is that you?  It's me, Sondra!  It's been over a year!  What have you been up to?  It is so good to see you!  You look great! 

I am so sorry that I haven't kept in touch but I have just been so busy.  You know how life gets.  Busy, busy, busy...what with my new production, The George Foreman Grill: The Musical, finally taking shape and my new chia pet, I totally let Callithump get away from me.

What do you mean you don't know who I am?  I am Sondra Stinglash.  The Sondra Stinglash.  I live with my son, Eckhardt and a palpation slave who lives in our guest room.  I can't believe you don't remember me.  Remember my inner editor, Edna?  Does that ring a bell?  Edna and I gave birth to this here blog.  People used to spit coffee onto their computer screens because of me.  Those were great days.

But what happened was, just over a year ago, I got  a near terminal case of Clown's Disease* and decided that I was going to dedicate my writing skills to serious pieces that would help people live better lives, blah, blah, blah...

But I have missed you, Callithump.  It's great to be back.



*Clown's Disease is a syndrome that affects comedians and humorists who grow weary of being laughed at and react by turning to serious pursuits, such as writing novels and publishing blogs dedicated to extolling the benefits of bodywork and living a balanced life.  The first official case of Clown's Disease was documented by Dr. Ivanov Rakhmelevich in the year 1912.  His patient, Fyodor Prokopovic, a tiny clown with the Dimitrovgrad circus, was known for his popular and somewhat disturbing act that consisted of his swallowing an elaborate number of toy cars, one after another, and then spitting them out, a feat that would a elicit cries of, "I can't believe how many cars fit into that tiny clown!"  Later, when Prokopovic's protege, Stevan Vlelekovich, gained instant popularity by reversing the idea and piled a ridiculous number of clowns into one tiny car,  Prokopovic became despondent.  Having been laughed at his entire career and then being outshone by his 19 year old protege, immediately following the now famous clown car act, Prokopovic developed an acute case of Clown's Disease.  Within hours he exhibited the now classic symptoms:  a decrease in shoe size, obsessive mustache stroking while repeating, "No one takes me seriously,"  and becoming an tax accountant.  Dr. Rakmelevich spent countless hours with his patient, squirting him in the face with lapel flowers and having him open cans of nuts that sprang forth springy snakes.  But to no avail.  Prokopovic would only respond to Rakmelevich's treatments by informing him that he could write off the props he was using and then asking to see his receipts. 







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Sondra Stinglash's Guide to Kindergarteners






















Fact #1- Kindergarteners are very curious about people:

Kindergartener- "Who your husband is?"

Ms Stinglash- "Pardon me? I didn't quite understand the question. Can you ask me again?"

Kindergartener- "Who your husband is?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Who is my husband?"

Kindergartener (smiling)- "Yes"

Ms. Stinglash- "I don't have a husband."

Kindergartener (frowning)- "Why not?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Well..."

Kindergartener- "You are still a kid?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Yes. I am still a kid. I am way too young to get married."

Fact #2- Kindergarteners are not really very good with numbers.

Kindergartener- "Ms. Stinglash! How old are you?"

Ms. Stinglash- "How old do you think I am?"

Kindergartener- "Eleven."

Ms. Stinglash- "How old are you?"

Kindergartener- "SIXTEEN!"

Ms. Stinglash- "That makes you older than me."

Kindergartener- "AND BIGGER!!!"

Fact #3- If you want kindergarteners to avoid stepping in the throw up in the middle of the hallway, the only way is to pick them up and hurl them over it.

Ms. Stinglash- "Walk next to the wall here...you need to be closer to the wall....Why are you walking in the middle of the hallway? WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!? STOP!!!! YOU ALMOST STEPPED IN....WHY ARE YOU ALL GOING OVER THERE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!? THIS WAY!!! I SAID THIS WAY!!! GET OVER THERE!!! NOW!!! AUUUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Fact #4- Kindergarteners are lousy spellers.

Kindergartner #1: "Ms. Stinglash! Ms. Stinglash! Clinton said the m word!!!!!

Ms. Stinglash (thinking) What the hell is the 'm word'?


Fact #5- Kindergarteners are not as lousy at spelling as you think.

Kindergartener #1- "I can spell a lot of words."

Kindergartener #2- "Can you spell the B word? I can spell the B word."

Kindergartener #1- "I can spell the B word too!"

Kindergartener #2- "I can spell the B word and the s word."

Kindergartener #1- "So can I!"

Kindergartener #2- "You know what word I can spell? I can spell THE F WORD!"

Teacher from across the room- "Great job kindergarteners! I like how you are all sitting and chatting so nicely with your neighbors! Looks like you have earned some marbles for our marble jar!"

Kindergartener #2- (whispers) "I can totally spell the F word."







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100th Post!

So this thing that happens- I get an idea that makes me giggle, I put my fingers to the keyboard and start typing. More giggling happens as I press "publish." Then even more giggling as I read the published piece and then joyfully fantasize about all the giggling that will soon occur in front of computer screens around the world. Hard to believe that this phenomenon has happened 99 times!

Which makes this very post my 100th post! Which I had planned to re-post my first post in honor of. Which I wrote on August 21, 2008. Which I am now posting for you. Enjoy it. It is one of my favorites and the first time around no one read it but my sister....

Ironically I chose the name Sandy for myself...not knowing that eventually I would start calling myself Sandra/Sondra Stinglash...

And here it is-

DATING YOURSELF

This might give you an idea of where I am at these days.

I am taking a course in anatomy and physiology and we are studying cells. The other day, our professor projected an image of a sperm cell on the wall. I looked at it and the first thought that came to my mind was, "Jerk."

Clearly, right now anyway, dating a man is out of the question. My solution is to date myself for awhile. My sister and I came up with the idea of dating yourself, an idea so brilliant that it is sure to start a whole movement. This review of a blind date can shed some light on how it is done:

Date Lab
Dates like this happen every day. Heaven help us.

Sunday, March 23, 2008;

5:00 p.m., Wegmans, Grocery Store

Sandy: I thought it a bit risky to go to my date’s home for the very first date. But it was Easter and Sandy seemed to be in the same situation as I was. No family plans or Easter engagements. When she suggested that we meet at Wegmans, buy food and then go to her house to prepare dinner together, I thought, “Why not” If I got a creepy feeling from her, I could bolt before we got to her house. I found her in the produce aisle, picking out artichokes.

Sandy: I recognized Sandy right away from her picture. She looked nice. Her hair was up. She was slender and dressed in jeans, Doc Martens and a vintage coat. She looked part big city punk, part Ms. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus.

Sandy: She seemed like my type and I was happy to see that she liked artichokes too. We picked out a couple nice ones, a small baguette, and some cheese. Sandy insisted on paying for the food, which I thought was nice.

Sandy: We walked the few blocks to my home. The weather was mild and sunny.

Sandy: We ended up walking to Sandy's home. I was surprised that we didn't drive. Maybe Sandy doesn't own a car. She seems a little out there- one of those environmental vegetarian feminist types. She had brought her own bag to Wegmans. I hope she isn't a lesbian. We mostly talked about the weather. Turns out her house is pretty close to the grocery store. Her house was kind of cool on the inside. I like the way she had it decorated.

Sandy: When we got to my house, I put the artichokes in the steamer and poured a glass of wine. That done, it was time to get to know my date better.

Sandy: I was a little put off that she hadn't bought a bottle of wine for us; instead she popped a left over bottle out of the fridge. There was really only enough for a small glass. Now that I think about it, it was probably better that way. It is better if I don't drink too much on a first date. I have gotten into trouble that way.

Sandy: We talked a bit about the books we are reading. Turns out that Sandy is an avid reader too.

Sandy: In the middle of our conversation, Sandy grabbed a book. She started reading out loud. The book was interesting and it was fun to discuss the passages she read. After a while though, she started to read to herself. I thought that was a little rude, but to be honest, I had spied an interesting book on her shelf, so I grabbed it and started reading too.

Sandy: The artichokes were ready at about 6:30. We sliced up the baguettes and cheese. I got worried because it wasn't really much of a meal, more of a light snack. But Sandy acted very gracious and said the food was delicious.

Sandy: The appetizer was delicious. I couldn't wait for the main course. I was so hungry, especially after walking from Wegmans and waiting so long for the artichokes to cook. It took me a while to realize that there wasn't going to be a main course. So, I hung out for a little while longer, to be polite, but then decided to take off. It was still early and I figured that I could stop somewhere and buy some food for myself.

Sandy: Sandy had to leave earlier than I had expected, but it was a really nice first date. I'd give the date a 4. I would definitely like to see her again. She was easy to talk to and I felt comfortable with her. I had a nice time.

Sandy: Blind dates are always a bit awkward. This one was a bit strange, but it wasn't too bad. I would give the date a 3. I would see her again, but I will wait for her to call or e-mail me.

Interviews by Loni Carbunkle

UPDATE: Sandy and Sandy exchanged e-mails addresses and phone numbers. They have sent each other a few funny youtube videos, but they haven't scheduled a second date yet.





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