By Nicole Zador
I fell asleep the first time I meditated. I was in my living room, my mom sitting beside me, her phone propped on the arm of her chair spewing breezy faux-Asian music while a British man with a very deep voice described a beach scene. It felt ridiculous.
That memory played through my mind as the bus pulled into Hanaton. We had just finished out long Shabbaton in Tzfat and all I wanted to do was take a shower, watch some Netflix, and fall asleep. But no, we were stopping here, to meditate. In my mind, meditation was divorced from Judaism. It was a New-Age technique that for some reason always included a flute and a British man.
But this experience was wholly different from the nap I had in my living room.
We entered Hanaton, a small Conservative kibbutz and sat down in the central meeting space to begin our meditation.
This was not an attempt to relax, instead, it was a tool for self-improvement. There were three steps to the meditation.
Observation
We spread out throughout the room. I chose to sit by a window. It was colder than it was in the rest of the room and as I settled into the sill and closed my eyes all I could think about was how uncomfortable my legs were. I focused on the particular feeling of my fingers. I felt the smooth texture of my dress, the way the cool air felt on my hands. Suddenly, I barely noticed the ache of my legs or the sharp press of the wooden windowsill on my back.
Mantra
The next stage was to repeat a type of mantra to ourselves. But it wasn't just random words; it was a Hebrew quote of our choosing. It should relate to our goals for ourselves, how we wanted to change in the future.
I've always wanted to be bolder, to live with less fear. The words I repeated in my head reflected that.
"יי לי ולא אירא"
“G-d is with me; I will not fear.”
I repeated the words to myself until they almost became meaningless. I could think the words to myself without making a conscious effort. It was as if the words were a part of me.
Breath
The final stage was simply observing our breath, a return of awareness to our bodies.
As I breathed deeply, acutely cognizant of the way air filled up my chest, my senses focused once again on the room. The feeling of coldness from the window slowly crept back into my consciousness. But it didn't bother me. I felt somehow well rested and connected to something. I'm still not sure exactly what that something was, but it brought me peace, and that was enough.
