New Age Target Practice
I have never meditated.
Only I think maybe I have.
When a person meditates, she focuses her mind on something small. Often, coaches suggest focusing on breathing -- a small action that is always right there. When her mind wanders, the person refocuses. It’s a simple concept, but hard to implement.
People who meditate are practicing so they become more mindful.
Mindfulness is being open and aware in the moment, focusing your mind on what your senses are seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and feeling rather than wandering.
Mindfulness encourages a person to be aware of her surroundings right now, rather than dwelling on the past or anticipating the future.
Or judging the past or future.
Many times, I don’t observe the details of my surroundings because my brain is organizing my to-do list or criticizing the rest of me for not accomplishing that to-do list as well or as quickly as I should.
I named that part of my brain Cruella. Sometimes I tell Cruella to Just Be Quiet.
While I have never struck a cross-legged pose, hands on knees with my palms up and eyes closed, I clearly remember the times I have been mindful of the here and now, with no thought of the past or future.
When I look up at the stars in the clear night sky, I forget everything else. Those stars go on forever. As I gaze across the sky, I begin to recognize patterns, such as Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper. When I keep looking, I see more stars, dimmer yet filling the blackness. I can’t get enough.
In the mountains, after a day or two, my to-do list dissolves. I forget to look at my watch. I listen to the horses’ hooves and admire the rocks, leaves and sky. I search for faces, shapes, deer and elk. When I get hungry, I eat. When I want to stop, I stop. Time becomes irrelevant.
I get lost in target practice, too.
But target practice requires deliberate, sustained concentration, a form of meditation that takes me to that space of lost time.
No to-do lists.
No project ideas.
No in-my-head conversations with friends.
If I only hope I’ll step into mindfulness at the shooting range, I never will.
The lists, ideas and conversations barge in, blurring the target through my scope.
I can focus for three shots so I put four bullets in the magazine.
I find the target in the scope.
Hold steady.
Watch the crosshairs wiggle.
Should I squeeze the trigger? No.
Take a breath.
Hold.
Squeeze.
Sometimes, I flinch – a long-held habit I try to break.
Instant feedback of a .22-sized hole somewhere on the paper keeps me focused.
Usually.
Sometimes, I can’t wait to celebrate or commiserate with a friend who understands this brutal mental exercise of target shooting.
Only those who can erase the outside world for long periods of time are successful target shooters.
Sometimes, Cruella offers her wisdom, suggesting I might as well quit now.
She tells me the wobbly crosshairs are embedded in my DNA.
She says everybody is a better shot than I am and they make it look so easy. Obviously, Cruella notes, they don’t stop to add to their to-do list, brainstorm an idea or enjoy a bit of imaginary conversation between shots.
I suggest to Cruella that she go sit in a corner.
Then I lean in to my rifle, find the concentric circles in my scope, feel my stance, and breathe. My heart slows. The world disappears. Only the target exists.
I squeeze.
A black hole punches the target.
I can’t wait to tell my friends.