Evening meditation relaxation,secret of the bees summary,secret ceres directions - Easy Way

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The five members of the Tuesday Evening Meditation Group are flat on their backs in the upstairs classroom of the Unitarian church where they meet. Jennifer wishes he would have said slowly open your eyes instead of open your eyes slowly, because she’s suggestive by nature, and when he said open your eyes she just went ahead and opened them, quickly, and then when he said slowly it was too late to go back and do it that way, so the effect was jarring.
It was Jennifer who several weeks ago suggested that they refer to their mid-session bathroom break as “achieving flow,” and everybody had laughed. Willow and Alex roll up in unison like it’s some kind of dance move they’ve practiced and then take turns massaging each other’s shoulders before they stand and stretch. Willow pauses for a second, then grins into the mirror and sticks out her tongue, displaying a round silver stud the size of a BB.
Richard Bader‘s fiction has been (or is about to be) published by the Burningword Literary Journal, SN Review, and National Public Radio. They are young lesbian lovers from the college who are there because they saw a flyer outside their Religions of the Eastern World classroom. Not a romantic crush, but a man-crush, the kind of crush men felt about Sean Connery during his peak Bond years, a wanting-to-be-like-him crush.
As he feels the burn in his throat, Ron wonders what George will think of single-nostril breathing when Conrad gets to it. There are two toilet stalls, which is more than sufficient given the church’s flagging membership.
Between the nose stud and the eyebrow hoop and the assortment in Willow’s ears, Jennifer counts nine.  She herself sports a very conventional two, one per earlobe, and she’s partial to gold dangly things. She hopes her daughter will be like Willow when she is her age, then realizes that she has just wished for her daughter to become a heavily perforated lesbian and laughs. He hears rain on the roof, and decides that tonight they will skip walking the labyrinth in the yard behind the church.
Eyes closed, they are tuned in to Conrad’s voice: “Feel the pressure on your pelvis as you relax into any tension there.
She is a short, stylish, forty-something human resources director with short, soccer mom-ish auburn hair who is fond of tight turtlenecks, and during lying-down meditation Conrad likes to watch her chest rise and fall as she breathes. They are also there because they read on a blog that Sting meditates, and who doesn’t think Sting is cool, even if he is sixty. One Tuesday during a break Jennifer asked him what he did for a living and the top of his head went crimson as he tried to explain his job, where he wasn’t the head librarian, but after a recent promotion was number two.

Not that George was anything like Sean Connery, to say nothing of James Bond, but he did exude a robust masculinity that Ron himself lacked. Can’t believe the progress I’m making.” Then with a stroke of ironic self-awareness, George reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a slim silver flask.
A flush comes from one and Willow emerges and goes to the sink next to Jennifer’s to wash her hands. Then Willow lifts her black T-shirt at the waist to show Jennifer the tiny silver hoop in her belly button. Ron twists himself into a full lotus that will go from mildly uncomfortable to full-on knee pain in about two more minutes.
Feel your shoulders where they sink into the carpet.” He is bringing them back from twenty minutes of acute body awareness visualization, horizontal variation. Having peeked, Jennifer is aware of this, and even though she isn’t attracted to Conrad, it makes her wistful.
He majored in Tibetan poetics and culture at a quirky but accredited college out west and wants the class to call him “rinpoche,” but as none of them are familiar with that term and Conrad himself seldom speaks unless he’s directing a meditation exercise, it’s unlikely that this will happen all by itself. Jennifer, who asked Ron this question on a night when her husband was entrenched in front of the computer and her daughter was in the hospital and she herself ended up staying at a friend’s, found his shyness kind of charming. He unscrews the top and extends it toward Ron, who laughs a real laugh, not his usual sniffly laugh. Their eyes meet in the mirror, where Jennifer is drawn to the tiny silver stud in Willow’s right nostril.
Jennifer wants her daughter to meet them, thinking that maybe that would help, though from the look of Willow, Jennifer can’t rule out the possibility that she has food issues too. The meniscus in his right knee is torn—an orthopedist has confirmed this—but neither that knowledge nor the pain will motivate him to abandon his lotus. The thin gray carpet is stained and smells faintly of the collective dross of many years of church potlucks, and visualizing your shoulders sinking into it is not an altogether pleasant image, so they are grateful to be nearing the end of this exercise.
She has a well of resilient good humor that she draws on as a defense against the torrent of personal misfortune she is undergoing: the recently fired husband who spends his days looking at Internet porn instead of searching for a job.
This is kind of lovebird cute, but it also royally pisses George off, because while Willow is dark and scrawny and heavily pierced, Alex is an Amazon, lithe and bronze from time outdoors with the college soccer team, so when George sees her holding hands with Willow all he can think is, What a waste. His wife thinks he has a drinking problem and has said she will leave him if he doesn’t get help. Where’s the last one?” Willow and Alex exchange glances and burst out laughing, and Jennifer delights in joining them.

Emboldened by George’s whiskey, he plans to talk to Jennifer after tonight’s class, and decides to use this final meditation exercise to think about what he will say.
I have used the same argument about the concept of transition, that all characters are in transition. This brings to a close an hour of marginally successful work to empty minds—earlier twenty-minute installments included simple sitting meditation and sensory breath-awareness meditation—and now another part of their anatomy needs emptying. It was as if that one brief conversation succeeded in making him think that Jennifer might actually like him back, and breathing the rare air of that possibility was enough. And the very recent news that the tiny lump she discovered in the shower a month ago is a big enough deal that her left breast will have to be removed. George has farted loudly and unapologetically during sessions, while Ron has endured stomach cramps.
If nothing is different at the end of the story, or if the character has not gained the slightest bit of awareness, even in the smallest sense, then do you really have a story? George arrives from work on Tuesdays in wrinkled grey suits from his job selling something—kitchen appliances, Ron thinks—his tie pulled loose at the collar. She looks down at the sink, then back at the mirror, missing the slight nods that Alex and Willow have exchanged.
The sight of Jennifer giggling with the two lesbians produces in Conrad an emotion he might call rage if not for the fact that he has worked so hard to eliminate rage from his emotional vocabulary. Just yesterday, after her husband forgot to clear the search history on his laptop, Jennifer found a link to a website of women with mastectomies who had gotten tattoos to cover their breast scars. His reliance on homeopathic remedies won’t help him much, and in eleven months he will be dead. Then Willow lifts her shirt higher, then higher still, and pulls up her sports-bra with it.
George is also, Ron thinks, the last person in the world you would expect to find in a meditation group.

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