Everyone has a happy place, but few individuals have several ‘happy places.’ It differs, depending on where I presently am, why I’m upset, and who I’m with at the time of my need for ‘happiness.’
Sometimes, it’s my mother’s lap; it reminds me of my true home, where I harbored myself in the dark, quiet, yet eternally tranquil abyss of the world, inside her belly. After all, it’s where we lived for nine months or so (eight for me due to my identity as a premature spring baby), attached to our trusty lifeline: the silver umbilical cord living and breathing for us. This is the place where I’m closest to my birthplace, closest to the heartbeat of a person whose feet harbor heaven below. It may be an infinitely silent place, but it is still the best counseling and therapy session known to humankind – free of charge. It listens without expecting anything in return; it defines comfort. I pray for those who lack this lap to find some other means of social solace, for indeed, any other kind neither tastes nor feels as sweet. This place is warm, cozy, and intimately personal. It is devoid of machines and technology and filled with maternal positivity that not only drives one’s mind to complete peace but also reminds one of how eternally transient life truly is (whether that’s a fortunate fact or an unfortunate circumstance depends on you, individually).
However, this lap – no matter how comforting – rarely exists in college, when my mother is all but with me. When this tragedy occurs, I resort to another happy place located within the abodes of my own room (off-campus apartments are the best for this very reason; a dorm simply cannot offer this luxury of privacy).
Located right in front of my spare azure mattress, is a spot – perfect for planting my two plump buttocks on. There, I sit, place my head against the tough mattress springs, and start the flow of tears. Since the hubbub of cafes with studious persons accomplishing task after task breeds dissatisfaction – namely, in the form of constant guilt – within myself (kudos to those lovely students; I pray for your success in all your endeavors), the small and speechless space of my room provides all that I need to soothe my stress. Leaning against the rough surface of the fabric, I let my eyelids swell up until the pain becomes too unbearable. They scream sorrow the next day and week as more and more students stare into them, but I don’t care what my redshot eyes signal to them. Everyone cries in one way or another, if not in college, then in life; the only variation is that some of us cry more explicitly more than others, and I happen to be of this “perceptible weeper” lot. It is not relaxing, not calming, nor pleasant – it is purely functional and acts as a placebo for my worries. Numerous research studies (indeed, I checked) have proven that crying often serves as a helpful form of emotional catharsis, particularly for ladies, but of course, cutting onions in the room is not the best medicine for everyone out there. However, for me, pulling is as close as it gets to conversing with human shoulders.
Nevertheless, when I’m the most upset, distressed, and agitated elephant in the room, and there is no one I trust enough to talk to, and my mother is busy with her own conglomerate of problems (unsurprisingly, it’s a 24/7 schedule), and my room seems too extinct to provide me any prosperity, I resort to the best dopaminergic source of happiness: the meditation mat.
Everyone’s meditation mat is different, and mine is light-green in color, smooth yet slightly rugged in texture, and absolutely majestic to bow down to. When I touch my acne-covered forehead to that magical mat, there is nothing more I need in the world (my sincerest apologies, Neutrogena cleansers and facial wipes). Oxygen becomes secondary and the Lord breathes for me. Down there, I cry and pant and weep and scream and shout out, as much as I can, until my lungs become exhausted. Noise pollution from my vocal cords blankets my room’s atmosphere, consuming the air within. The alveoli inside my bronchioles dim down without a whisper, bleating and sobbing all on their own. Down there, I find my solitude, sometimes within minutes, sometimes within hours – sometimes, within seconds. I am truly grateful to be given the opportunity to be aware of this mat, and its purpose, and to be rich and blessed enough to own it.
There’s a small nuance between meditation and mindfulness (the ubiquitous word we all hear whenever we read any nutrition blog piece or “healthy eating habits” article relating to the endless differences between the 24/7 American way of eating and the French meals worth making an “event”). Nevertheless, it’s worth noting that this mat of meditation, of rumination, of musings, is not about religion; it’s about spirituality. They’re both mutually exclusive and aren’t synonymous in nature, contrary to much popular thought (although it’s currently evolving, thankfully). One doesn’t have to belong to or believe in a specific religion to be spiritual; spirituality is about digging deeper within the context of nothing and no one other than yourself. You start to delve into your worries without worrying about the act itself.
You start to engage in the act of self-actualization: the special ‘epiphany’ moment, the “a-ha” moment, the realization or fulfillment of one’s talents and potentialities, occurs.
You start to let go.
Sometimes, this process hurts – truthfully, it aches often.
But occasionally, it feels liberating. And that sentiment of freedom can be marvelous in so many unexpected ways, collegiettes. I urge you to check it out, soon.