Meditation

I’m trying to learn to meditate.
To stop the constant fussing in my head.
The what-ifs,
the can-you-evens,
the why, why, whys,
and the I’d-better-not-forget-tos.

The smooth rocks of Picnic Beach shift
as I nest my sit bones down,
I shimmy until we settle all the pokey bits
into a comfortable agreement.

I straighten my spine
and take a deep breath.
I scan the beach
for something to focus on.

Rings of ocher,
the texture of ancient suede,
decorate the slab of pale granite
along the high tide line.
They are outlined by a pale green-gray fringe.
Small black patches —
a legion of tiny desiccated fingers clasped in prayer,
form a horizontal bar
below which a velveteen skirt of bright green algae flows
softly and gently down
to the sea smooth stones I breathe in.

I breathe in, but
my ankle bone has had it.
I shift my bum,
I think maybe I can do this.
I look back at the ocher colored rings,
at the granite slab.

I want to wonder more —
about lichen,
and granite,
and things that are stuck right where they are —
survive
or don’t.

But, the skiff
and the crew
and dinner.
I breathe out, reach down
and pull the offending small stone from
under my angry ankle bone.
A pale gray-green oval,
bisected by a thin vein of ocher
angling across its shape.
I put it in my pocket
and go.