Before I bring you to a meditative trance, the state requires me to say I am a registered sex offender. Breathe deep, eyes close, sinking sweet into your chair. It was all a misunderstanding of course. We’re talking deep-tissue mind massage—invented by Krishna, perfected by science. This perky broad from Oakland didn’t comprehend the difference between sensual and analytic touch.
Breathe deeper, bowing to the unconscious mind. Every time we breathe, we pray to ourselves. Nevertheless, the courts defecated upon the work of yet another Socrates. Perhaps I was too transcendental to know where the hands were healing, even a pile of limp rubber bands has the capacity to snap.
As my gaze inspects each and every one of you, I’m sensing a lot of newbies, or as I like to say New-Me’s, in the circle today. Welcome home, even if our initial meeting is the work of a deeply discounted Groupon offer. I’ve had to get creative since the school assembly circuit dried up. Thank you to those who also signed up for my weekly newsletter.
The state does allow me to blow gently on your forehead. Raise a hand if you’d like me to assist you in that way. For the hands that were down, I’ll assume you’ve fallen into a catatonic trance and were unable to signal. My lung prayers breeze across your face now.
My apologies for the seal breath, I confess I went with the tuna melt for lunch. Ahh, but you’re reminded of the seashore. Your mind is a castrated tidal wave—all motion, no destruction. There are mermaids swimming through your waters. A glittering tale rests beside you. Reach out to it.
Pay no attention to that godforsaken sniffing lap dog. I took him in after the divorce, and he’s made a pest of himself. He hunts for the tuna remains. Some days I blame myself for his nosing around as I have inadequately offered the gift of my lap. The physicality of my work prevents me from sitting often.
The old hound only wanted rest and now he’s ticking around the room like a hungry beast. I know, none of us are able to perch upon a dimpled thigh as frequent as we please, old boy. My god, hold yourself together.
I’ll be turning on the faucet for a soothing effect, taking you back to the ocean and mermaids we visualized. Jane and Veronica, this should please you. I saw on your liability waivers that you’re water signs.
The aforementioned mermaids whisper softly now, “You don’t have to pick your mother up from the hair salon every Tuesday. You don’t have to fall asleep gripping a seasonally depressed Miniature Schnauzer anymore. Disembowel ego myth.” Swim, my turtles, swim toward the new you.
As you experience the complete stillness of meditation, heed my commands. Once awaken to your normal life, when you hear the words “Thank you” or “Happy Bar Mitzvah” or “Which way to the nearest pawn shop”—your mind will spasm back to confidence.
You’ll return to my voice, remembering I am your lighthouse at sea. The empathy will bubble from just below the spine, deeply south, toward the back pocket. The wallet will cry out, begging to be rid of so many earthly scraps.
Again your hands reach out, lungs exhale, fingers land on the one-click payment option on my Kickstarter, easily linked from the current newsletter edition. Listen to that rushing water, it’s a funeral march to the old you. In addition to a generous donation, Jane and Veronica will remember I’m available after-hours as well.
Godforsaken mutt, I swear to Krishna if you don’t settle down, I will walk you straight back to the rescue shelter. I have no appointments this afternoon and every intention of keeping my intention. Hush, listen, it’s the ocean breeze again, giving us all a new name.