I developed what my doctor called “mild insomnia” while working as a legal assistant in one of the prominent Toronto law firms. I silently bristled at his addition of the word “mild” to my diagnosis because it seemed to imply that I failed to meet the requisite hours of sleep deprivation needed for my condition to amount to more than just “a taste” or “sample” of the disorder. Worst of all, I thought it belittled my misery, that perhaps a more resilient person would find the physical and mental fatigue tolerable. What I had earned, however, was a recommendation from my doctor to participate in the Mindfulness Meditation program administered by the staff of the Toronto General Hospital. Drugs could not cure what ailed me. My problem ran much deeper. His official diagnosis: I was stressed. His unofficial diagnosis: My soul was stressed. When I asked if he could recommend a good shaman, he told me this class was the next best thing.
The program’s instructor, Linda, appeared to have shared a glass of “Kool-Aid” with my doctor, and she was intent on making disciples of the tired and the weak. Our assembly was comprised of the usual sinners – workaholics. Some suffered from anxiety or depression, but mostly because they were anxious or depressed about something work-related.
Aside from insomnia, many complained of chronic pain or lack of concentration. Many had a hard time sitting still. An older gentleman left his chair periodically to stand in the corner of the room for a few minutes before returning to the group. He wasn’t as fidgety when he returned, but soon, the tension would build, and he would have to step away again. He looked like someone trying to ignore a nagging itch without much success. Linda claimed that we all had a mental itch that kept us from fully participating in our lives. Mindfulness meditation could not banish this itch. It could only teach us to live with it. I was not impressed by Linda’s low standards. The Kool-Aid she was offering was too watered down for my taste, but like those needing salvation, I wagered my soul in exchange for relief and took a sip.
To be mindful, we must think in the present. To meditate mindfully, we must think deeply about the present. Since the senses ground a restless mind, we were encouraged to revel in the softness of our beds or sniff wet grass. While other meditation forms use awareness exercises to prepare for intense reflection on existential matters, mindfulness sticks to the basics. It’s the lazy man’s preferred path to enlightenment. It may not lead to Nirvana, but studies have shown it may bolster your immune system. “This won’t lead to an out-of-body experience.” Linda explained, “But we are about the inner universe, an inner-body experience.” She paused the way a narrator would before the big reveal. Then she flashed us a mischievous grin before fetching something from her desk at the corner of the room. “Here, “she said, holding up a small paper bag upon returning to the group, “This will help open your senses and bring you to a new level of awareness.” No way was I the only one who thought we were about to smoke a bag of pot.
Linda instructed us to cup our hands and hold them out communion style. She then used a scoop to dispense the bag’s contents into each of our waiting hands. Those who received the mysterious items first were forbidden to share their identity with their neighbours. Linda at least informed us that we would eat. “Is marijuana edible?” whispered Claire, the elderly lady sitting to my right. I told her it wasn’t, so we were likely getting mushrooms. The teenager beside me nodded in agreement.
I observed the faces of the people before me, and they did not look pleased. Jeremy, a melancholy 30-something, actually scowled. He stared at his hands like it was full of crap. It looked that way at first glance, but Linda was passing out raisins.
I was happy with the reveal, unlike Jeremy and the other haters. Raisins have been a favourite snack of mine since childhood. Despite being unattractive, raisins are sweet and unassuming, like Tattoo from Fantasy Island. Apples, oranges and bananas are the superstars of the fruit world because they can command the full attention of your taste buds. It is all about them. They become the headlining acts of any dish or pastry they are added to, making it their vehicle. Raisins, on the other hand, shine when part of an ensemble. Perfectly cast in the supporting role, they enhance the flavour of the other ingredients they are paired with. I, however, enjoy raisins in their purest form with no distractions. Gobbling fistfuls at a time, I could almost taste the rays of sunshine they were bathed in. It surprised me to learn that stuffing one’s face violated the tenets of our meditation practice.
Linda claimed that our ailments stemmed from a malnourished soul and that the lack of substance in our lifestyles failed to keep us spiritually healthy. We were asleep in our bodies. We would shove food down our throats to continue to the next activity or combine eating with another task like reading, working or talking. Our minds are absent from the act, so we never explore, savour or reflect on the nuances of our food. The body is fed, but the soul is left hungry. Unfortunately, we carry this attitude into other aspects of our lives. We merely try to get through life, not experience it. “This exercise will teach you mindful eating.” Linda began, “One raisin at a time.” It was good that she made us close our eyes; otherwise, she would have seen me rolling mine.
Our sense of smell was the first of the faculties we exercised. As a snack, I loved it so much I was shocked to realize that I did not recognize the scent. It was subtle and not particularly delicious, but I didn’t think it was offensive either. It seemed sour more than sweet, yet it made my mouth water nonetheless. I’m sure it was an automatic response since my pallet had not been enticed. Overall, the smell reminded me of stale wine. After giving us a moment to reflect, we moved on to our sense of sight. “I want you to examine the objects in your hands,” Linda instructed. She stressed “objects” because she wanted us to set aside our previous notions of raisins. “Separate one from the group.” she continued, “Pay attention to its form, texture, and colour.”
“It looks like a piece of rabbit turd.” Jeremy said, “Like the poo pellets I find when I clean up after my pet Bruno.” Jeremy was suffering from depression, so I assumed everything in his world looked like poo, but he did have a point.
Placing the raisin under such scrutiny caused cracks in our previously solid relationship. I started to see it in a new light as well. I could get past Jeremy’s crude image because I’ve never seen what a rabbit left behind after it went to the bathroom. The resemblance is striking, but I must take him at his word. Upon closer inspection, I thought the raisin looked more like a mole. Specifically, it reminded me of this plump, overgrown, crumpled-skinned specimen that covered a quarter of my great-aunt’s right nostril. It was hideous, like an angry troll guarding the entrance of his cave. I do not know why she never had it removed. Indeed, there was a doctor kind enough to commit insurance fraud and claim the mole was cancerous. Looking at it, you could tell it was a mutation of the species.
My great-aunt was an attractive woman who aged gracefully. She had delicate features, and her skin looked amazing for her age. This made the mole on her face stand out all the more. It was the cursed mistake on an otherwise perfect exam. She died in the summer of 2000, and the mole was buried with her, forever sealed into the earth. But staring at my palm, I wondered if that wretched thing had somehow crawled out of the grave and sought refuge in a box of raisins. “Now,” Linda continued, “Bite into the raisin and feel the squish between your teeth.”
My husband, Fred, picked me up from class and was shocked when I launched into a rant as soon as I stepped into the car. “If she was going to make us stare at our food, why didn’t she pick something like cookies or orange slices?” I raged, “Who wouldn’t want to sniff a cookie? As for the oranges, cut them into wedges, and you’ll have a handful of smiles. Not wrinkled moles or turds!”
Fred had the opposite reaction to my observations. “That’s just nasty!” He chuckled, “But I disagree with that Jeremy guy. Raisins would only look like rabbit crap from a distance. They have a smoother exterior, while raisins have ridges. I’m with you on the mole thing, though. God, I never noticed that before.”
“My point exactly.” I cried, suddenly overwhelmed, “My love affair with the raisin is over, irreparably damaged because the illusion is gone. I’ll get over the gross comparisons and images they’ve triggered, but I will never get over the truth: that my once beloved raisin is nothing more than the shrivelled remains of a substandard grape. I have sampled the forbidden fruit, Fred, and the taste of knowledge is bitter indeed.” We were quiet for a long while after my tirade. I sunk back into my seat, defeated, deflated and spent like a toddler after a terrible tantrum.
Fred finally broke the silence when we reached our driveway. “Really? All this grief triggered by meditation?” Sad but true, I told him, and probably the reason most of us don’t practice it regularly. My recent experience of “pure raisin” made me yearn for sleep even more. The sweet state of oblivion afforded by a good night’s rest had eluded me so long that I resented Linda for trying to bring any form of consciousness back into my life.