The day before my graduation from the University of Tennessee, I dropped by to see my college advisor, to thank him for his wisdom and guidance throughout my undergrad years, (years that were pretty much a blur, I must say)... I worked 3 jobs and tackled a course load of 19 – 21 hours each quarter in order to graduate early, which yes, gave me a jump start on my career... But it did not come without a price.
At the time I wore my ulcer like a badge of honor. I had been hospitalized twice in my 3-year college stint, and took my finals wearing a hospital wrist band. But I did it. And as my prize, I had landed a job at an agency back in Nashville, where I had interned the summer before. I was on my way.
My advisor was a quirky dude, known for his Mensa IQ and for roller-skating to class. Sarcastically witty, his classes were hard as heck and his grades, even harder. He gave one "A" per class, because, as he put it “There’ll only be 1 job.” He wanted us tough when we hit the real world.
As I sat across from him, slightly less nervous, more overly-eager, and oh so naïve, he slid a piece of paper across his desk and said, “Once you get settled, call this.”
On the paper was a number and the letters “TM”.
Turns out Dr. Wesson had studied under the Marharishi (same one the Beatles made famous). At the time I knew absolutely nothing about the practice, nor did I have any intention of calling --the thought of sitting still twice a day for 20 minutes at a pop was just not in my Type A wiring.
But I took it just the same; thanked the man who had done more to shape my creative outlook on life than any other and went on my merry way.
Six months later, fully drenched in agency life and hating every minute of it, I was leaving my doctor’s office, (ulcer now turned full blown Crohn’s), and headed home to find the number I had stuffed in a desk drawer.
Transcendental Meditation for those who don’t know, is the practice of stilling the mind, transcending our day-to-day conscious level of thinking, long enough to tap into a deeper, more tranquil state of being. It’s not a sleep state. It’s not a waking state. It’s deeper than either of these. Personally I didn’t think we could still our thoughts. I’d been told we’re always thinking, even when asleep. Turns out I had a lot to learn.
The best analogy given to me was to envision my mind as the ocean, with the upper level of waves being that part that gets tossed about thanks to everyday life. Most of us accept this as “just the way it is” never stopping to fathom that we can tap the ocean’s floor, where it’s quiet and serene, and where pearls get made.
TM gained popularity in the 60s when the Beatles touted its benefits having spent months with the Maharishi. (It was reported they credit TM for weaning them off LSD.) By the 80s when I was introduced to the concept, TM was presented not as a religion, but as a balm to the central nervous system. (Had they touted it as a religion, I would not have gotten past the door, as my fellow Church of Christ friends were rather skeptical of me even looking into it.) But it didn’t take but a few weeks of adhering to the practice for me to physically feel the results. (All I can tell you is that the combination of TM and an herbal tonic did for my Crohn’s what steroids and surgery could not. As we say in the country, “The proof is in the pudding.”)
I share this little glimpse into my past for one reason…
Over the course of these blogs, I have written of more than one friend battling cancer right now. The majority are going the traditional route (i.e. surgery, chemo, radiation, or some combination thereof) and I support them fully in their decisions. Another, however, has opted to forego this more common path of treatment and is addressing her diagnosis holistically, which for her has meant a radical diet change, some significant stress-relieving exercises and (as I read her blog yesterday) meditation… (whether TM or not, she did not say, nor do I think it matters. What matters is she’s a part of a growing trend who are looking at the downsides of chemo and radiation and saying “No thanks.”)
To be VERY clear-- I am not advocating anyone give up traditional treatments. Clearly, many work. What I am saying is, Dawn’s decision reminds me we DO have a choice, which I dare say most of us forget when facing that overwhelming emotional moment when you hear the dreaded words, “You’ve got cancer.”
I am watching my friend’s journey with a passionate interest, for first and foremost, she is my friend. But her journey also represents what a lot of people are going through only now, from a different perspective. She’s a Christian, so prayer has long been a way of life for her. She has a loving family to support her and friends who love and lift her up as well. But when I read that she was meditating (which is quite different from prayer) a new peace came over me. It brought comfort, yes, but it also brought with it a personal reminder that pausing, truly stopping in the course of our chaotic, over-stressed, over-booked lives, simply to “Be still and know” … Well, to me there’s no more powerful healing agent in the universe.
I do not wish to elevate Dawn’s way over another as a matter of competition, for adding that sort of pressure is precisely what we do not want to do here. (To the contrary, relieving all pressure is the goal.) But cancer or no, the thought of literally lightening one’s load, removing one stress here, another there…this is good medicine in anybody’s book. And while I continue to pray and hold the vision of Dawn in perfect health, while eagerly anticipating what her next scans reveal, I am reminded that meditation and mindful living should be our goal no matter our body’s state of health. If we could all but pause and turn the boat around now, even without those dire words, wouldn’t that be an example worth following?
To Dawn… for living that reminder, for living your faith, for being so brave…I thank you. From day one it seems your life has been about touching lives and you do it beautifully.
To those who know her (and even if you don’t), all prayers are welcome.
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