Meditation, and something my mom doesn't know about me

My mother reads pretty much anything I write for public consumption, so it will probably surprise her to see this. Don't worry, mom, it's good.

When I was a kid, maybe six or seven years old, we lived in a house on a busy highway--or as busy as a highway can be in rural Missouri. And we had early bedtimes. So it wasn't unheard of to be hitting the sack while there was still a busy world outside--and light, too, at least in summer.

It was here that I first learned to meditate. Unlike early bedtimes, meditation was unheard of, but that didn't stop me. Not that I knew that was what I was doing--I was just trying to fall asleep. In the process, I created a technique I use to this day to center myself, slow my mind, and focus, even when I don't "have time" to meditate.

Notice how quiet it is where you are. No, the computer humming doesn't count. Move closer. There is a zone of stillness reaching out from your skin. It might be only a couple of inches, but it's there--not just silence, but stillness. Now, make it bigger, maybe three inches. Now, six.

In the midst of a hectic day, you can recognize the zone of stillness that is around you at all times, and use that focus to quiet the chatter, the better to listen to what's really important.