Meditating at High Speed
A friend of mine meditates in the classical way. For hours, she sits quietly or walks in slow and measured steps. I can’t stay still for long. But I meditate in my own way — at high speed. While my friend folds her legs under her, and follows her breath, I race around a cold white room, pursuing a warm black ball.
When I first started playing the game of squash, my goal was exercise. Squash tops basketball and tennis in calorie consumption. I liked its effect on my body. But I discovered it had an effect on my mind, as well.
The court itself is soothing: the white, boxlike room. Its spare emptiness: no nets or hoops. The soundproof walls. When I play solo, I hear only the twang of rubber against nylon, the smack of ball against wooden walls, the heaving of my own chest. The court is my Zen garden where the only sound is the drip of water from a bamboo pipe.
At first, my squash technique is all vigor and little grace. I swat at the golf-ball sized sphere, often hitting only air. I lurch from wall to wall, less like an athlete than a drugged bear. A squash ball moves fast; when it heats, up, faster. To reach it, I must take my deepest breath, stretch my body to its fullest, and lunge toward the space where I imagine it will go.
I don’t always make it. But as time goes by, it matters less. I savor the breeze my body creates with each lunge, the shape my racket sculpts in the air. I find that I care more about reaching toward the ball, not the final hit or miss.
Gradually and to my surprise, the space, the ball and I start to connect. I discover that I can reach out to the edges of the court but at the same time, keep the center. I am like the filament in a lightbulb, vibrating with energy. I give myself to my body’s effort. No ideas, worries or thoughts intrude. After an hour on the court, my hips, arms and ankles throb, but my mind is at rest.
Although I treasure my solo playing, I eventually realize that squash — like most things in life — is meant to be shared. I find a partner. All I know about her is that she’s Australian and has kids. Two — I think. Our mutual love of squash is all we need to know about each other. We play to exhaustion and part without chitchat.
When we start to keep score, competition throws me off. The graceful flow of the game is disrupted. To win points, I fling my body to the floor pursuing low shots, and my partner strains her shoulder smashing hard drives. We collide often, with each other and with the walls. Bruises appear on our bodies’ tender parts. It’s good exercise; I lose a dozen pounds. But I do not feel peaceful any more.
I want that sweet absorption back again. Maybe lessons will help. I sign up for a session with Doug, the gym’s squash coach. Happily, he is just the teacher I need. He teaches not by logic, but through metaphor. Stroke as if you’re skipping a rock. Throwing a frisbee. Sweeping bottles off a shelf. Scooping a butterfly into a net. Keep away from the walls — imagine they’re been electrified. Or that they’re at the edge of the Grand Canyon. Move quickly — but not in a straight line. When you cross the court, trace the shape of a crescent moon.
Doug helped me “be present” again — as my meditating friend would say. With the ball, the court, and with my body. To see the game not as a battle to win, but a lake to swim in — or a surf to ride.
Now, I move light and fast, sweeping across the court like a bird. My partner and I glide past each other, close but with only our arm hair touching. I tease her with “boasts” and she delights me with “three wall nicks.” We play to win but we want the other to win as well.
While my friend who meditates takes a single step, keeping all her awareness on heels, instep, and toes, I leap about the squash court, my mind filled with my small black ball. All other thoughts drift away like line spinning out from a fisherman’s reel. As my body strains to its limits, my mind floats free.
[published in Yoga Journal and in Spirit of Change]