My mind, to your mind.

My thoughts, to your thoughts.

You are lying on your back, on the dusty, rough wood floor of a decrepit, uninsulated building in the sweltering afternoon of August in New Jersey.

There’s a sign on the door that says “theatre” but that’s only because of the art practiced inside — there are no lights, no dressing rooms, nowhere in particular to sit except the floor, no marquee, no box office. Maybe those things once existed here, but now the building is achingly empty, all but abandoned.

You are on the floor and so are your classmates. Believe it or not, this is school. Grad school, even.

Theatre school though, so, ya know, relax a little. There won’t be a test later, but you will be expected to stand naked in front of everyone while your professor berates you for a lack of commitment to your studies. This will not be recognized as abuse when it happens to you, nor will you speak up when it happens to others. This is art, apparently.

But anyway, you’re on this floor, in black gym clothes, if I didn’t say that already. This is a movement class, which requires movement clothes.

So here you are, a theatre student in grad school, lying on the ground with your eight classmates in an otherwise empty shell of a building, in a movement class, wearing movement clothes.

But you aren’t moving.

You are meditating.

Or, you’re supposed to be meditating, anyway.

You’re the anxious sort, guilt-ridden beyond your years. Some of it is well earned, some of it the product of sever mental illness which will go undiagnosed for 15 years.

As your chest rises and falls (try to focus on your breath, please) so too do your emotions. Emotions kaleidoscopic in disorienting variety, undeniable as the tide.

Master Yoda tells us that fear leads to anger, leads to hate, leads to suffering. But in your unmedicated state, and without the liberating effects of alcohol (also called self-medication) you are already suffering. And fear leads to joy, leads to despair, leads to euphoria, leads to stoicism, leads to laughter, leads to years. Throughout this quite literal emotional rollercoaster, you are inexplicably horny.

You are crying. That is not the purpose of this exercise. You are supposed to feel better, more confident, ready for the stage, and the scrutiny of an audience.

But you are crying.

The name of the game is “Ten Minutes of Nothing” and it is supposed to be easy. A Nordic man, your instructor, has assured you of this. His name sounds like “yawn” but is spelled with almost none of those letters.

He must be able to see you are crying, but he never addresses it. The closest he comes is empty meditation platitudes like:

“If a troubling thought crosses your mind, just send it away with an ‘it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.’”

You whisper the words because you are supposed to, but you know you are lying. Things are not alright.

“If a troubling image is pestering you, tell it ‘I have no apologies’.”

You have so many apologies. Lovers betrayed, family let down, drivers you cut off, friends you cussed out, that one time when you were nine and your dad hit you because you didn’t buy your mom a mother’s day present (with all the money I made at school, I suppose?).

In the real world, during normal interactions, people try not to cry, often apologizing for having visible emotions and even leaving the room to prevent the discomfort of others.

In theatre school, everyone is trying to cry. Successful methods include biting the inside of your cheek until it bleeds, pinching yourself hard enough to leave bruises, and imagining the violent death of someone you love.

When you’re not lying on the dirty floor of an empty building in New Jersey, you are praised for your “emotional accessibility” by which they mean your ability to absolutely lose your shit at the drop of a hat. The way you can bawl like a baby while simultaneously cackling like the Joker. The way you are never at peace.

Back on the floor and your 10 minutes are almost up. You’ve taken approximately 60 deep breaths in through your nose and out through you r mouth. Your eyes are rested at least, from being closed, even if they are a little red from crying. And despite severe initial discomfort, the hard floor has improved your posture a bit and eased your skeleton’s tension.

Your mind and imagination continue to dark through the confines of your skull, flashing at frustrated random like lightning bugs searching for a way out of a mason jar.

Time is up and your eyes are open. As you slowly rise, you notice a few classmates also have red eyes, including the class’s locker room leader, your favorite actor, a man you call your friend, but who you also look up to. You lock eyes, and think, maybe 60 deep breaths is just what you needed.

Sarek’s wife Perrin says that due to the effects of Bendii Syndrome, Sarek has been “unable to meditate” and that the practice has “eluded (Sarek) for many months.”

Her language makes meditation sound like a video game boss that Sarek can’t “git gud” enough to defeat, banging his head against the wall after dozens, even hundreds of failed attempts to best his enemy and achieve peace.

Recently I celebrated a minor milestone — 1,000 days of consecutive meditation. Occasionally for hours at a time, most often for just a few moments, I’ve attempted to focus on my breath and quiet my mind.

For a long time I thought I didn’t need to meditate because I “got it”. I’d spent enough time in school navel gazing and I understand the benefits, so I didn’t need to bother myself with the practice. (The perfect logic of the mentally ill.)

The attempt, I see now, is what matters. Even thinking about meditation, saying to yourself “damn, I should really meditate” is a type of meditation. According to my meditation app I’ve spent 437 hours and 29 minutes of the last 1012 days in meditation, but I’d argue my true time spent in contemplation is at least twice that.

Meditation can find you wherever you are, if you let it. Washing the dishes can be as much a meditative practice as taking a walk. So can making your bed, or buying your groceries, if you choose to do it mindfully, with focus, with breath.

And don’t ignore the meditation you are already doing. Who hasn’t felt centered and at one with creation after a much needed trip to the bathroom? Can peeing be meditation? I say, yes. Can rewatching a 40-year-old TV show you’ve seen dozens of times be meditation? I say yes to that, too.