I have a practice with my sangha (community) of writers. We get together once a week and hear the work that each one of us has written during the week (two pages max). But we haven’t been in touch since the holidays, and I feel a little rusty. So, this morning, I decided to go to the woods. There are no actual woods where I am now in Madrid—rather, a big park with seven hills.

Returning to the Body Through Nature

I walk up to the top of one of the hills, where I can see at my feet the whole spread of the city. It’s a sunny and cold morning, so I’m wearing my wool hat and gloves. But I take my sneakers and socks off and walk around the top of the hill. I feel the wetness of the blades of grass and the tickle of hard roots pressing against the naked soles of my feet. I imagine the pulse of the Earth underneath them—the pulse that radiates from the core of the planet. A core composed mostly of an iron-and-nickel alloy. A solid inner core and a liquid outer core. I visualize all that energy holding everything together.

Listening Inward: The Practice of Presence

Then I sit down cross-legged, because I’m comfortable like that, and feel the cool breeze on my face. I close my eyes and allow the warmth of the sun to soothe me, and I begin to listen to the sound of my breath. I get distracted when I hear the sounds of traffic below me, or conversations of passersby, or the sounds of my own thoughts: I’ve just remembered that I didn’t send that application for a playwright’s residency.

The Mind Wanders—And Comes Back

Suddenly, I realize I’m going to have to pee soon. My left ear itches. But then I begin to focus on the pause between breaths … and there I find little pockets of nothingness. Sometimes it’s just a split second—a moment of peace and quiet, of presence, of connection to the core of my being, of pulsing in unison with the heartbeat of the Earth. (That, I imagine.)

Remembering Connection

There is a connection between the newborn and the breast of the mother. My cousin Momo had baby Mario six months ago. When I’m playing with him, I have his whole attention, but whenever Momo enters the room, baby Mario can feel her before he hears or sees her—like an invisible cord that joins him to her, an intuition, a feeling of belonging.

I feel connected to this hill where I sit today, as if it were my own mother. Mother Earth. I feel connected like the roots of grass to the soil, like the row of brick houses down below, like the crystal beads of the necklace I’m wearing. I feel a connection to a force that is intangible, a vibration of energy that is like music, like love. And a few minutes later, I feel replenished, and I bask in this feeling.

Meditation as Returning Home

I begin my walk back home. I take the long way home, which meanders through neighborhood streets that are not familiar to me, though I know that sooner or later they will deliver me to the place I left earlier this morning—that place I call home.

To meditate is to go back home. The inner home. The house of the Spirit. When we go inward, we can feel safe within the confines of our own body. We can open ourselves and invite creativity into our lives.

Creativity as a Spiritual Practice

Whenever we allow the creative juices to flow through us, we feel like we’re going back home. We connect to that nonphysical part of our being that knows what we already know, so we can be who we already are … ourselves, fully. We can be more authentic, and we can live deliberately.

To be authentic is a conscious choice. We choose to show up and be real in our everyday lives. We break through our fears of inadequacy and show the world our true selves.

Bringing It Back to the Page

I arrive home. I sit at the black-and-gray wooden table in my living room, next to the window. I can see the neighbors roaming about, doing their chores. I like to peek and imagine what their lives look like. I wonder what their passions and fears are, or if today they will live something grand and magnificent, like staring at a baby’s smile, or being helped by a stranger, or being hugged by an old acquaintance. 

Then I grab a blank page. I stare at it. I take a deep inhale. I exhale completely. I smile—and I write.