Charitable Contributions

8: Mental Distractions

"Take the next few minutes. Breathe. Relax. Try to find a sense of silence."

The room fell silent as a tome, so I turned up the music volume. Tyler's flinching temples gave me a note to talk to him afterward. My mind drifted to its usual dark places. With two minutes left, I pulled out my notebook and read off my sixth chakra affirmations. "Focus on my voice. Let these words soak in. Repeat them within your mind, if you'd like."

"I manifest my visions."

"I seek wisdom and guidance in all situations."

"I listen to my inner guidance."

"I see clearly."

Hopefully, I offered a safe, open place for more than exercise–exploration, mental focus, and neural restructuring. As class participants struggled to press their military boots into civilian shoes, hopefully, they found an applicable coping mechanism and a post-deployment brotherhood.

Peace filled every pair of eyes, my measure of success. Warmth glowed in my chest, mirroring the LED candles circling me, and the usual knots pinching my shoulders were slack. I bowed my head, resting my lashes against my cheeks. "In peace and loving kindness, Jai Bhagwan. Namaste." (Loosely: May the divine in you be victorious. I bow to you.)

Deep 'Namaste's' returned the sentiments. The vibe was somber but warm and relaxed. My spirit was lighter, my brain quieter, and my body tired. Success. A shiver ran down my back as mats were sprayed and gathered.

"Great class." Phil, a tall, muscular honorable discharge, offered me a grateful smile that warmed my heart. Bending over, he dropped his towel into the dirty laundry bag. "Thank you, Mia."

I smiled. "Glad to see you watching that shoulder."

"Forgot I was wearing this." His hand palmed his prosthetic attachment's bicep as he paid me the highest compliment. "Thank you."

A quiet man with cropped hair, bulging shoulders, and his chin dipped down approached me. "Mia? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Tyler." I stepped over, hugging my elbows with my palms. "What's up?"

"I, uhh..." His eyes studied my feet. "Do you do one-on-one help? During meditation, my brain... it's–"

"Not quiet enough?"

He whooshed out an exhale, deflating. "Yeah."

I widened my smile into one I hoped was encouraging. "Absolutely. I'm here tomorrow. Does eleven fifteen work?"

"Yeah." The tightness in his voice relaxed. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Of course."

My usual collection of conversations, thank-yous, and check-ins continued. Once the last pair of feet exited the studio, I slipped on my Crocs and joined Shanti at the front desk.

"Why do they make us jump through these hoops?" I signed my twentieth Fort Simmons attendance voucher.

"Practice for your John Hancock." One of her dark brown eyes winked. She paused and opened it, dark lashes fluttering with her parted open lips. "Did I say that right?"

"You did." I placed mine in an envelope and shoved it into the outgoing mail pile.

She peered over my shoulder at the log I scribbled over. Shanti couldn't balance a checkbook if her life depended on it, but her infinite heart took a chance on me. With the GI bill, I obtained my two-hundred-hour certification under Shanti's instruction. I didn't express enough appreciation, but she had my loyalty.

"Here." I handed her the completed log.

"Thank you. I haven't seen Mister Pearson in a week," she said without hiding her amusement.