aaahhh, there's nothing like the peace of the country for a long silent meditation, especially when you're staying in a cabin with a beautiful view from the deck, miles from civilization. That is, until your dog decides it's play time and barks so loudly at your determinedly peaceful self that his bark echoes across the canyon, and is returned by a fellow canine, only to cause a long doggy dialogue with miles of valley between the participants. I think you can imagine the effect on my concentration, but that is something we're supposed to work on anyway.

I tried again the next day, but in a cabin situated in such a quiet peaceful setting one can't help but overhear the bustlings of the other inhabitants, struggling with their very worldly problems: a toilet that wouldn't flush, a hilariously mislaid piece of compost, a forgotten machete. I wouldn't think it, but it's true that I do my best meditating in the middle of the city, when I'm alone in the apartment. The dog is still asleep and I nestle in on my thick comforter in my small room away from the street, wrapped in sort of a muffled quiet of white pillows and blankets. The coffee is on and as it brews its scent is otherwordly.

But although at the cabin there are unexpected distractions, the distractions are caused by my family, whom I love. And they are all accomplished meditators themselves, so they understand my predicament, but cannot all pause their lives while I take a few breaths. And no, I cannot awaken earlier than my mother, whose very name refers to her propensity for beating the sunrise every time.

So at times like these I want to just give in to life, and open my eyes and help with the toilet and laugh at the squished lemon and offer an opinion on how to return the machete to its rightful owner. Doesn't that seem more natural, and more kind, than enacting the separation of silence, even though it's only temporary?