THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY 21 - NOT SO QUIET MIND

Today’s prompt:

Take a few deep breaths. Ground yourself in your body. Bring your attention to your sternum and your hands. Your legs and feet. Do you feel electricity? If so, where? Do you feel warmth or coolness? How is your heart? If you’re experiencing an emotion, where does it show up in the body? What color, what shape does it take? 

Enter into your body as much as you can and then write about the experience—what you noticed, what you encountered, what you learned.

Not So Quiet Mind

It’s less than five minutes from my house to Golden Gate Park. My preferred route is up the steep road through the Arguello Gate and then down the narrow footpath behind the Victorian-era Conservatory of Flowers. The Dahlia Garden is one of my favorite places in the city.

I settle myself down on a bright green-painted wooden bench with a view of the swaying orange and yellow poppies. I close my tired eyes and take a deep breath as directed by today’s prompt.

I let out a cough.

And then another.

I open my eyes, wondering if anyone notices. The attractive young couple in their bright athletic wear and regulation N-95 masks. The hipster toddler racing around on his Skuut wooden balance bike. The homeless man rummaging around the metal garbage bin for recyclables. No one seems to care about me.

“It’s just a cough,” I say to myself. “Think about today’s prompt. Bring your attention to your sternum. Your hands. Your legs and your feet.”

Another cough.

My mind drifts from the task at hand. I’ve had a nagging cough for the past few weeks. Nothing serious. No fever. Just this tiny, persistent, nagging cough.

I’m reminded of the prompt from Day Six, when I had to close my eyes and write about what I saw on the inside of my eyelids. For me, it was an epic battle between dread and excitement.

“Quiet your mind,” I think. But my mind refuses to obey.

This particular spot in the park has a special place in my memory. It always reminds me of my friend Jen. We used to meet up here and go for long walks. It was here that I first learned that Jen’s cancer had metastasized. It was here that we talked about the clinical drug trials Jen was hoping to qualify for. It was here that we talked about Jen’s end-of-life plans.

I suppress another cough.

When I was a teenager, I noticed a strange feeling in my chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack,” I told my parents. We went to see a number of specialists, who ran a battery of tests. Apparently, my heart skips a beat sometimes. It’s odd but not fatal.

Whenever a new doctor presses their stethoscope against my chest, they ask, “Do you know your heart skips a beat?” And I answer, “Yes, I know.”

So here I am, sitting on this bright-green wooden bench with the early evening sun. I’ve got my eyes closed, trying to bring my attention to my sternum and my hands and my legs and my feet.

But all I can really think about is my sweet friend Jen who died last year, and my odd heart that sometimes skips a beat.