I meditate. I also go to an ashram.
I’m watching your reaction right now, because that’s what I’ve learned to do. For a lot of people, these simple statements would not set off shock waves of suspicion or even elicit so much as a raised eyebrow. With the help of yoga, meditation has gone mainstream. The “mind/body/soul” label is everywhere, from Oprah to the boxes of organic tea in my grocery store.
That is, meditation has gone mainstream in some parts of the country. I grew up in the South, in a good WASP-y home, in an Episcopal school (K–12), in the Episcopal Church, and in a mostly Episcopal community where Presbyterians were considered a novelty. We were all even mostly “low church” Episcopalians, meaning anything involving chanting, a dead language, or incense was considered a little dramatic and weird. In church, we sat, we stood, we kneeled, we sang, we repeated ad nauseum. But rarely, if ever, did we sit in silence contemplating and communing with the divine reality that existed not just within the four walls of the physical church, but within ourselves. Certainly not for extended periods of time. So when I tell people I meditate, I watch very closely for their reaction.
I began my meditation practice seven years ago, when I was nineteen, after a trip to an ashram in South India with my mother and sister. I’ve returned to the same ashram when money allows every year (more or less) since, and increasingly, those experiences and my practice have become a huge part of my life and my spirituality. Yet, although I’m a very open person, it’s something I rarely talk about. Partly this is because for me, meditation is my private conversation with God, and as such, is a closed meeting. It is intensely personal. However, it’s also because I never know what kind of reaction I’m going to get.
I’ve had friends ask (jokingly, I hope) if I’m part of cult. I’m pretty sure my roommate doesn’t know what to make of the altar beside my bed in my room, with its eclectic mix of Christian, Hindu, and Buddhist objects and figurines, because she’s never once asked about it, like the Indian elephant in the room. I’ve had boyfriends who’ve poked fun at my practice, who’ve disapproved, or have uncomfortably avoided the issue altogether. Few of my close friends “got it” initially, thinking I was just going through a phase in college or perhaps reeling from my parents’ divorce and reaching out for help in unlikely and possibly unsavory places.
