“It’s not my job to be the world’s critic.” Jane McGonical
My meditation bench is clunky,
It’s high and the seat is long.
I love this bench
For all is reclaimed from the roadside,
Each piece a castaway
Brought together by fate, purpose, or dumb luck.
I care not how they came together,
Only that they are.
There’s no animus for the polluters,
No cry against a disposable society,
Just happiness and joy for the pairing
Of wood from the same mother.
Tonight my mind fell into a deep flow
On only the second time using this bench.
I can’t tell if I was falling asleep or really letting go,
Casting off the grime beneath my confidence,
Jettisoning the dominoes of analysis,
Breaking the loop of self-criticism.
Either way, I’m wasted
In a fog like state
Where the clarity comes
With peacefulness and freedom
From the ball and chain that is
Being a critic.