Not Close Enough to Be In It

Yesterday, my computer died. I tried to restart it five times before I gave up.
I sat there for a while anyway, staring at the blank screen like it might change its mind. It almost felt like meditation.
I should have taken the hint from the universe. It’s not subtle, but apparently I am.
Instead, I got frustrated and doom scrolled on my phone.

I could have stayed in that moment of freedom. I didn’t.

Image courtesy of Robert Ullmann via Scopio

Outside the window, our neighbors have tulips already—somehow, even though it’s barely spring. I noticed them, but I didn’t get up to look any closer. I just stayed where I was.
Close enough to see them. Not close enough to be in it.

It was sunny, in April, and my sedentary body couldn’t even make it to the window.
Which feels like a low bar, even for me.

Sometimes I feel like those flowers—like I’ve come up a little too early, like if the temperature drops even slightly, I won’t make it.

My computer froze. The tulips will probably freeze tonight—it’s supposed to drop below thirty-two degrees.

All these small deaths.
Nothing dramatic. Just moments I didn’t enter.

And me—still here. Not dying anytime soon.
Which, apparently, isn’t the same thing as living.

Yesterday I ordered a new computer, but before it even arrived, the old one came back to life. I’m returning the new one.

I’m not going to lie—I was a little disappointed. I had already started imagining it. Opening the box, the shiny new surface, setting it up, everything working the way it’s supposed to.
I love new things. Expensive ones, especially. I have a type.

I tell myself I don’t care about things like that. That none of it matters. But clearly, it does. I wanted the new one.
I liked wanting it.
It’s a clean feeling—wanting. Nothing to live up to yet.
It gave me something to think about instead of actually living anything.

I believe that consumerism is killing people’s souls, but I’m a victim of it myself. I think I hate capitalism, but what would I do without my iPhone, Apple Watch, and Mac computer? iPhone, Apple Watch, Mac—the full set. They work very well together. I wish I did.
It’s not like I’ve got money to burn. I just…choose this anyway.

As a concept, I hate materialism, but in reality I love my things.

It’s true—I collect things. I have more clothes than the female goddesses—if they exist. My friends joke about the number of throw pillows I have—embroidered, silk, velvet. There are blown glass vases all around my house that I don’t even have flowers for.

On the one hand, I think fashion and interior design are a kind of art. I like living inside something that feels beautiful. But then I look at it all and wonder—who am I with all this stuff? I don’t love what it says about me.

Does it satisfy something?

I’m not going to lie—it does. I like pretty things. I like making myself pretty. Or at least trying to. I like the feeling of it.

Or maybe—what is it helping me avoid?
Avoiding is a theme, apparently.

And at the same time, I want something completely different. I tell myself I want to meditate every day. I know what that feels like when I actually do it.
Which makes it a little harder to explain why I don’t.

I keep thinking about this guy I met at a Sikh camp when I was fourteen. He was a former drug addict—cocaine, the whole thing. Not casual. Committed.

He told us he quit cold turkey and then spent seven days meditating. Seven days.
Which, now at fifty, sounds like both a miracle and a scheduling nightmare.

He said when he went into rehab after that, they told him he had no withdrawal symptoms. None.

What stuck with me wasn’t even that part. It was how he described it.

He said when he was on cocaine, he felt love. Like he loved everything.

And then he said meditation felt the same way.

I remember sitting there thinking—how can I do this? The meditation, not the drugs. Just to be clear. 

He also talked about people in the seventies who were doing LSD and then stopped because of the side effects. They turned to meditation instead. Said the high was better. Cleaner.

After years of meditating, I know what he meant.
I’ve felt something like that. Not all the time, not even close—but enough to recognize it.

Which makes it stranger that I don’t just…sit down and do it.

I want to understand what people mean when they talk about peace, or enlightenment, or whatever version of that exists.

I believe in something beyond this—some kind of merging, some kind of release from all of this wanting.

And I know how far away I am from that—
I can feel the distance sitting in this room. It’s not subtle.

I want to get there. I want to leave all this behind.

But I also don’t.
I want both. That’s the problem. I’d also like them immediately, if possible.

The only answer I can come up with is something I learned from the Gurus in my Sikh religion—that you don’t have to leave your life to find something deeper. You don’t have to disappear into the woods or give everything away. You’re supposed to stay here. In your home, in your relationships, in all of it.

Be in the world, but not of it.

That God is other people.
Which is a beautiful idea, and also occasionally inconvenient.

The problem is, I’m getting older. I just watched my father die a slow, painful death. And now I can’t stop thinking—who’s next in line?

I’m sitting here writing, reading, listening to music, talking to my friends. I’m not meditating. I’m not doing anything that looks particularly spiritual. Unless you count taking care of my elderly mother.

Maybe I’m letting myself stay exactly where I am.

When I really think about it, I did take care of my father for five years. He was very sick. I showed up every day.
I watched him get smaller. I stayed anyway.
He was dying. I was still avoiding my life.

I don’t know—I guess that counts as something. I think it should.

He believed in karma. I do too. That what you put out comes back to you, in this life or the next.

Look, I don’t want to sound like a preacher. I’m just trying to tell you what this feels like from the inside. I want to be better—but maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am.

Maybe I’m okay. On a good day.
Maybe you are too.
Or maybe we’re both just convincing ourselves.

I mean, we’re all going to die—that part seems pretty certain.
Living…not so sure about that one.

And what does that even look like?
I keep thinking it’s something big.
It might just be the things I keep not doing.

Maybe it’s small. Putting your phone down.
Staying in the moment long enough for it to feel uncomfortable. Which it usually does.
Looking someone in the eye when they’re talking. Noticing the tulips coming up, even if it’s too early and they might not last.

The other day, one of my best friends and I were in the car, windows down, screaming the lyrics to that song—“What’s going on? And I said, hey—hey hey hey…”

It’s by Blond…something. I don’t remember names anymore. I’m aging. Or distracted. Or both.

People were staring at us like we were out of our minds.

And maybe we were.

But it felt so good.
I was actually there.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/  or wherever you get your podcasts.

Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for the laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.

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