"This is why I don't do malls," he said. The holidays were in full swing. Shoppers looked exhausted as they hurried from store to store, coaxing tired children along with them. "Look at this mindless consumerism, look at the money being spent on things people don't need," he snarled. He told me he hadn't been to a mall in years because malls are mindless, empty places. He told me he wanted to go to Nova Scotia and meditate on the cliffs.

And I get that. I get that urge.

The urge to leave it all behind and find a "peaceful place." But here's the thing. You're never going to find a place of perfect stillness in this world. Where you can completely relax, where things are "just so," where your open loops are completely closed. Your unfinished business, finished.

Here is the line of thinking promoted by the productivity movement. (And the "improve thyself" line of thinking, in general.) The line of thinking goes someday, if you're just productive/yogic/meditative/far enough away from your cubicle, you'll find your peaceful moment. You'll pay that final bill, have a pantry fully stocked, have all the filters changed in your car and house, your will updated and health check-ups completed.

You'll have your student loans paid off, your computer backed up and all the thank you notes finally written. If only you have the right systems in place, you will close every open loop. Then. You will have your well deserved moment of peace.

*

After her death, mom continued to receive mail. Most of it was junk mail, but sometimes it was requests for her to update records. I'm not sure how my grandmother handled it because I never asked. But I know there are things that belonged to her that have never found their way into the circular file. Never found themselves on the shelves at Goodwill. Social security card, love letters, photographs of her twirling batons, red hair ablaze, looking at the camera with a look that you can only interpret as: I'm up to no good.

Costumes she wore as a child, her Christmas stocking, crafts, recipe cards, car keys. Her wallet is completely intact as it was the day she died on November 30, 1992.

Our belongings outlive us.

Our open loops never completely close.

*

The airport. In a yoga magazine, an ad of a woman, sitting in yoga class on her mat. One hand at her heart, in prayer position. The other, holding her phone to her ear. The students in class are glaring at her. The text reads, "What's your intention?" The implication: how dare you bring that into our sanctuary?  

Yoga magazines brim with photos of retreat centers in Costa Rica, Hawaii, little coast beach towns. Buddhist magazines, too. Productivity sites promise you true relaxation once you've closed your open loops. The message is clear. Join us, and bring your _______. Fill in the blank: yoga mat, mala beads, labeler.

Escape. Get out of your current situation and come find a little peace with us in this temple, on this beach, in the archives of this productivity site.  So you do it. You save up. You book your flight. You get to the beach, you think about your open loops. You think about how you might be missing an important meeting at work. You find that, if it's a long retreat, your fellow participants start getting nervy with one another. A fight erupts over who left the toothpaste spit on the sink. You think to yourself, "this is supposed to be a retreat. We're supposed to be relaxing! I gave up shopping at the mall for this!"

*

Today is December 8, 2009. The temperature is right around seven degrees. I'm sitting in a little cafe drinking Earl Grey, watching the snow fall. I'm not blissing out. It's not perfect. Like you, I have open loops right now. Lots of them. I have emails I could be sending. Bills I could be paying. That's never going to change. 

The temperature will never be quite right.

Someone will answer their mobile during your yoga class.

The car in front of you will drive too slowly for your taste.

Worse, your labeler might run out of battery life while you're organizing.

Turns out, you don't really like the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks in Nova Scotia. And the beds at the abbey are lumpy. 

It's okay. Work with what you have right now. This really is it. Right now, at the mall, with your shopping in your hands and three kids fighting and on the way home, driving behind the too-slow car.

This is it, open loops and all. Pay attention.

--

This was written for today's Best of 2009 prompt: December 8 Moment of peace. An hour or a day or a week of solitude. What was the quality of your breath? The state of your mind? How did you get there?