I always used to say that New Year’s Eve was my least favorite holiday, and that I could count on one hand the number of New Year’s Eve’s I’ve had that I’ve enjoyed. There was one year that I was wandering the Lower East Side of New York City with a group of people who were friends of friends and I didn’t know very well, and there wasn’t a single place that I could afford to get into, because the covers were so high. We ended up at the saddest, most random Irish bar, me desperately wishing for midnight to roll around, so that I could leave the group I was with and go home and go to sleep.

Then there was the New Year’s Eve where my best friend Jill and I decided it was a good idea to leave the cozy little party we were at in Hell’s Kitchen to get to another cozy little party on the Upper East Side. We felt like it would be cheaper and faster to walk, and somehow didn’t take into account that we were going to have to walk through Times Square to cross the city, got nearly trampled in a crushing throng of revelers, ran up Broadway till we got to Central Park, defied a cop’s orders not to enter the park, and ran through the park until we got far away enough from the crowds to continue to our next destination. Stressful.

Then where was the New Year’s Eve of Y2K. I can’t remember why, but I was in my apartment in Ann Arbor with my best friend Carolyn, and all of our plans fell through because there was a giant snowstorm. We called up any of our friends who were in town (Jeff, Patti, and Celia, if I remember correctly…), watched Eddie Murphy’s Delirious for the first time ever, laughed till we cried, waited to see if the world ended at midnight (it didn’t), then randomly took a walk through eerily quiet, very snowy Ann Arbor till we wandered into Leon’s Speakers, where my ex-boyfriend’s older brother happened to be hanging out at 1 in the morning, and spent the rest of the evening/morning hanging out with that guy.

And if I had to rank those three New Year’s Eve experiences, the quiet one in Ann Arbor, where we basically just sat around and wandered around and enjoyed nice people’s company, was by far the best. There were no fancy outfits, no fancy drinks, no epic party plans… Just embracing life as it came, and keeping people close who you loved and loved spending time with.

So while the world seems obsessed with optimization, resolutions, fresh starts, diets (ugh), and fitness routines, I keep coming back to the gap that I have felt, over and over again, on New Year’s Eve, between what I think I want, what I think I’m supposed to be doing, and what I actually want. What does the presence of that gap have to teach me? What I think it’s telling me is that there is magic in being present for the imperfect reality of life.

Imperfect reality is a good way to describe our theme for the month: Meditation. I wouldn’t describe meditation as serenity, or relaxation, or wisdom. I’d describe it as a deep engagement with the sometimes muddy process of being a human. Which, coincidentally, is how I might describe what I feel like when I’m running - which is as close to a true meditative experience as I’ve ever come; closer than walking and yoga, which are definitely immersive, but not meditative. Let me explain.

I discovered maybe six years ago, as an almost-40-year old, that I actually was capable of being a “runner.” This was a pursuit that I had long written off because I never was really very good at athletic things. I went out for track one year in 8th grade, hated it, and quit two weeks into the season. I don’t know why 39 was the magic moment, but maybe it was because I was comfortable enough in my skin, and slightly less attached to my ego, and I realized it didn’t matter how fast I went. I could just run, as slow as I wanted, and that was all I needed to do to consider myself a runner.

I am slow. Not as slow as others, but certainly at the middle-back of the pack. Though there are euphoric moments where I feel like I can run forever, there are more moments where I’m uncomfortable and unsure how I can keep running. I continue to remind myself that I’ve done it before, that I’m fully capable of continuing, that it’s okay to be uncomfortable, and I keep going. 

And something magical happens, every time. I feel an awareness that I rarely experience in other aspects of my life - my heart beating, where the ends of my fingers and toes are, a connection to the world around me, a deep grounding as my feet rhythmically reconnect to the surface beneath me. I feel fully myself; fully human.

Meditation and mindfulness teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn talks about “Full Catastrophe Living” as a way to frame the meditative process. “The full catastrophe” comes from the book “Zorba the Greek,” where Zorba is asked by his young companion if he’s ever been married. Zorba answers, “Am I not a man? Of course I’ve been married! Wife, house, kids, everything… the full catastrophe!” Kabat-Zinn interprets that phrase as a full embracing of all of life, including its sorrows, mundanities, and joys. He goes on to say:

“There is not one person on the planet who does not have his or her own version of the full catastrophe. Catastrophe here does not mean disaster. Rather it means the poignant enormity of our life experience. It includes crises and disaster but also all the little things that go wrong and that add up. The phrase reminds us that life is always in flux, that everything we think is permanent is actually only temporary and constantly changing. This includes our ideas, our opinions, our relationships, our jobs, our possessions, our creations, our bodies, everything.”

And more than anything, I wish for us to experience that poignant enormity of reality when we approach meditation. And I think that focusing our efforts and energies less on what we think we should be, and more on understanding exactly who we are, by sitting, breathing, and embracing the thoughts that come to visit us when we get on our meditation cushions, will make us fuller, better people. It will perfect us in a way that makes us perfectly imperfect, eyes open, ready for whatever comes.

Once it was over and I was back home, I knew I had to let it go. There’s no way to re-create the sometimes euphoric flow state one encounters in meditative moments like that, and chasing after them is setting yourself up for that roller coaster of a desire cycle. But I still find it amazing that a run that was for all intents and purposes miserable ended up being one of my favorite runs ever. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Just like that Y2K New Year’s Eve, laughing my ass off at Eddie Murphy with Carolyn. Just like this New Year’s Eve, watching a murderous coven destroy Toni Colette with my daughter, while 8 teenagers rolled 20-sided dice downstairs and played Violent Femmes records. Maybe not everyone’s idea of a perfect New Year’s Eve, but certainly mine. Give me the full catastrophe.

You must have known I was going to end with this clip. Take three and a half minutes and enjoy a true moment of movie magic.

Did you ever see a more splendiferous crash?

Anna

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