Day Nine of Learning to Meditate

Thursday, day nine. I'm writing it down by the hour, because I'm afraid tonight I won't remember anything except my aching feet.

5:50. Alarm. My hand touches the phone to switch it off, and my thumb is already ready to slide over to Zalo. I stop right there. I turn the phone face down on the table and go sit in the fabric armchair in the living room, light still off, the sky outside the window a bluish grey. My head starts running at once: there's a washing-machine promotion today, three customers coming to pick up. I count my breaths up to six, then lose it. Come back. Gently, no hurry. Two minutes, I sat the full two minutes.

7:40. Red light at the intersection. I'm on the motorbike, so my eyes stay open and my hands stay on the handlebars. I just look at my hands, a little hot from the early sun, and feel the wind slip up my sleeves. Two breaths. Green. The bike behind me honks, and I go.

10:15. An older man comes into the shop and asks about a washing machine.

— How many kilos does this one wash?

— Ten kilos, sir.

— How many?

— Ten kilos, sir.

The third time he asks, I answer in a tone I know is a little sharp. I only notice when he's already at the door, turning to look back at me. I stand there with the price sheet in my hand, ears burning.

12:30. Rice with grilled pork chop in front of the shop, eaten in three minutes because I'm afraid the manager will glance over. Halfway through chewing I find myself typing a message with my left hand. I put the phone down. The second half of the plate I eat more slowly, and I can taste the sweet fish sauce and the charred edge of the pork. That's all. Half the plate, because the first half is gone.

15:40. I slip. The company Zalo group, a message from the team lead: "Has anyone closed this week's numbers?" I type a reply, delete it. Type again, delete. Then open the group, close it, open it again. For an hour that's all my head holds, and by the time I notice, the iced tea beside me has melted into a cloudy brown. My shoulders are hunched almost to my ears. I let them drop. One breath. I reply with three words: "Yes, closed it." Done.

18:30. Home, shower, listening to the first rain of the season tapping the neighbour's tin roof. The smell of damp earth rises from our little yard. I stand by the kitchen door for a while, holding a glass of warm water, doing nothing. Such a small thing, and it's what I remember all evening.

22:05. Three minutes, in the same armchair as this morning. Tonight my head runs faster than it did at dawn. I lose count twice: once remembering the washing-machine man, once because the rain eased and then came down hard again. I don't count it as failing. On day nine I wouldn't dare say anything has changed. Some days I feel a little quieter after sitting, some days I don't, today was one of the don't days, and I sat anyway.

At the bottom of the page I write one line just for myself: lately I've been more tired than usual. If this tiredness is still here after a few more weeks, I won't wait for meditation to take care of it, I'll go and talk to someone with professional training.

Day nine done. Tomorrow is day ten.

This article was created with AI assistance.