Time Makes You Grasp

Failing to reach enlightenment during morning meditation, McCormick must contend with the seven hours before J&J come home.

Two undergraduate memories contribute (invade?): Asking his advisor how carefully William Trevor’s intricate plots were planned, and staring at a therapist’s beard one winter-break morning after crashing his Wagoneer into the big pine in Shelly Holland’s icy front yard the night before.

“I think he just sits down and writes,” said Vern.”

“Stop imagining yourself the hero of your life’s drama,” said Dr. Blackmann.

McCormick is sure both men meant well. But the problems of art, living, and Shelly Holland’s lips remain.

other people's worlds

This is Meditation: This is Not Meditation

(McCormick sits alone on his living-room rug, trying to recapture the peaceful feeling of the Ashram days…)

His crown chakra—the Lotus Throne—spreads open. Surge of bliss: breath rising, belly lifting, ribcage spreading. He looks for the Blue Pearl. Then stops looking, so it will come. He remembers not signing the permission slip. Damn. June was so ready for zip line. His eyes pop open, admitting the cluttery pile of papers from the last article. And Julie’s diamond teardrop, under the couch. He burrows back into the stillness, chin lifted to heaven. He sneaks a peek at the spot on the ceiling where paint always cracks. Then he gets up and calls the ceiling guy.