Again, "There is a right place for every soul under the sun." For someone like me, this phrase is like honey, a calming, cooling balm. Yes, sometimes we are in the right place, sometimes not. In that particular mystery, I guess it's giving away the plot just a tad to say that the monastery's new novice was not, in fact, demonic, but he was also not in his right place in the world. Things, fortunately, work out in the end. I've become ridiculously narrow in my reading recently, as I continue the medieval mystery theme: Peter Tremayne's "Sister Fidelma" novels and the Kate Sedley "Roger Chapman" mysteries such as The Brothers of Glastonbury. Between that and insatiably devouring old Time Team episodes, I guess I am about as transparent as glass. Give me a simple living space, the English countryside, medieval architecture, spirituality, scholarship and music, and even abbey or church ruins, and I'm a happy woman in her right place. Modern American life, for me, has always been the real mystery...
But thanks to a friend's suggestion, and my continuing trouble "meditating," I have been trying instead to spend a few minutes here and there focusing on my senses. I'm nearly always barefoot when I can be, so what do I feel underfoot? Carpeting? Wood floors? Grass? Are my fingers feeling glass, plastic, or cotton? What is that I smell? Coffee brewing? Sweet flowers? How many sounds am I hearing? (The fridge, a passing fire truck, a kid going by on a skateboard, a bird, distant rock music.) Meditating has never grounded me, but this does. My right place for this second is right here, where my feet are on the ground. If I can just be present to the sensations, it's "right" for right now.
