Me: I’m ‘bout to go meditate.
CJ (my son): And I’m ‘bout to go meditate my way.
Kobe (my daughter): You ‘bout to play the game?
CJ: Yep!
I opened my mouth then closed it back. Started to say that’s not meditation. Not because it ain’t sitting criss cross applesauce with your eyes closed and hands resting gently in your lap. I strongly believe and practice active meditation, non-sitting meditation.
But because meditation can’t involve screen time. The screen is what we’re getting away from. It might seem non-intrusive, but it’s aggravating our eyes and brain. That’s why we’re supposed to avoid blue light before bed.
Right?
That “right?” is what closed my mouth as I was about to “correct” him.
Because who I am to tell him what meditation is to him? If I got radical with it (using Angela Davis’s definition of radical in “getting to the root”), then meditation means focusing your mind for a period of time.
The purpose of it — or at least my purpose — is to let go and recenter. It’s a way of taking care of myself, washing my mind’s walls, vacuuming out the corners, and opening the windows for an airing out.
That said: Who am I to tell him that he’s not taking care of himself when he plays the game? I can share my position/research on why screen time should be limited, which I have (many times). But I can’t expect him or make him honor my position/research.
There are instances when I do (mainly safety concerns), but otherwise I try my best to allow him to make his own decisions. Both of my children. And others in my life.
Myself included.
The outsider telling me what’s in my best interest might not be my mama (which it often is though). It might be a Google search result, a damn good book, or someone whose values I really dig. I can choose to taste it a while, spit it out, or take it in. But the choice is mine.
A couple hours later, after my unplugged me-time and after I’d made dinner, I headed upstairs with my bowl and a glass of wine.
Kobe: What’s that?
Me: Wine.
Kobe: You don’t need that. It’s not good for you.
Me: I know I don’t need it. I want it. And I’m okay with how I moderate it.
See how fast that thang turned around on me?
Self-care shows up differently in different moments/feelings of our lives. And just because someone’s version of self-care doesn’t look like or agree with mine doesn’t mean it ain’t right.
Sometimes being checked helps me realize how far I am from my center, so I acquiesce and put the wine (or whatever else) back. Other times, I thanks-but-no-thanks the checking and go with what I want.
That willingness to go with what I want is something I’ve done since a young girl (who often wandered too far from home). It’s a valuable asset in reclaiming our free — and keeping it!
We ain’t here to please anyone. Not the one whose wombs we emerged from nor the ones who emerged from ours.
Love me by holding me accountable, yes, but also Love me by respecting my autonomy.
And that’s a word from a 13 year old and a 31 year old.