Meditating in the manure tank

It's November. The season with stones, dust, and high school students is over. The back hurts, patience is exhausted, and the lines on the calendar are empty. Some people are drawn to the healing bath, where they let the Cüpli masseuse massage their tense buttocks with a drink in hand. As for me, I shuffle in slippers with a Magic Ginger Tea in my hands towards the meditation room.

Just a few days ago, I sealed a manure silo with putty and a viscous mass. Being a freelancer requires flexibility, because the bills need to be paid after all. Like with the putty, I polish my crusted mind to a high gloss after finishing work until my true self shines again. Sitting, stretching, and whining, I try to tame my thoughts like a stubborn hammer drill until my butt cheeks hurt. With my face mask, I look like Globi in the monastery and with all the vegetarian food, I feel like a parrot myself.

I accept the challenge of days of silence like a hardened Tibetan monk. What could be so bad about confronting one's own thoughts? Once again, during the yoga exercises, I notice that I am as flexible as a steel beam, while my neighbor picks her nose with her little toe. On the other hand, I outshine every Vienna Boys' Choir when I sing my OM fervently. After a while, my chakras blink like a defective traffic light and I am close to madness. But I persevere and in the end, I have accumulated so much energy in my sacral chakra that I could immediately set up 1000 silos.

As a famous yogi used to say, one should burn out completely like a good campfire in all one's activities. There is no room for a little smoldering around, because at the end of one's days, one does not want to have to look back on a few half-charred pieces of wood.

In this sense, I no longer have to worry about my manure tank, because it will hold and the shit will stay where it belongs.