FOUR MINUTES Today I increase my daily meditation to four minutes. I can do this. The threatening storms of life can wait. I sit at my desk, close my eyes. And then the tell-tale prickle starts. A coming sneeze tickles my nostrils. Calm. Breathe. Another

FOUR MINUTES

Today I increase my daily meditation
to four minutes. I can do this.
The threatening storms of life can wait.
I sit at my desk, close my eyes.

And then the tell-tale prickle starts.
A coming sneeze tickles my nostrils.
Calm. Breathe. Another inhalation.

More dust or mould or something fills my lungs.
Eyes water…and… kerchoo!

I ride the sneeze, a shockwave pulsing out
from my centre, coursing down my arms
to tingle every finger. What a ride!
And then another. And one more.

I surrender to the moment.
Let the sneezes rip and feel
strangely exhilarated.
No stifling the explosions
by grabbing for the tissues
no hasty scrabble for hay fever pills.

The detonation shockwaves ripple out.
I feel each one. Then quiet comes.

That’s when I notice that my hands
are dutifully paused, but grip the desk edge,
waiting to plunge into the day’s email surf
where I’m always Canute,
commanding the tide to stop,
in a fruitless daily exercise.

I feel my body sitting twisted sideways,
resting on just one buttock,
poised for flight should something need me elsewhere.

I take another breath,
adjust my position at the desk,
put my hands into my lap. Sit straight.

What’s that? My phone alarm already?
Was that four minutes?
Was that a meditation? Mmm.