Puck, the tabby cat, lies in the sun. Stretching his wide paw out as if to grab at the ray of sunshine in the dusty air. He smiles and stretches his legs. His heavy belly — filled out by fur, winter feedings and deep fulfillment — rises and falls slowly. The afternoon sun-strips meld into his brown and black fur and the patterning blurs together. He appears perfectly, serenely, happy. Completely absorbed in the moment. And he doesn't seem to be aware that I am observing him. It's as though his awareness is both totally within his body, and yet above it all — floating. I try to put myself in his place. To leave my own, folded and comfortable human form and exist within his.

I sink into an unknowing, unthinking place. I sense myself lying on the hard floor, the coolness of it on my skin and fur. The glorious light all around me. The feeling of dropping into the space beneath me, and the reach of my paw up and out towards the spinning sparkling dust particles above my head. I imagine the feeling of fullness and the satisfying lack of any need to hunt or seek. I close my eyes and stretch my chin up and feel the extension in my neck, the arch in my back. And then I lose it. My conscious mind ticks over, as if to capture my own feeling and thought process, and the serenity is gone. My thinking mind returns, and seeks memories of other times, other places when I have felt so serene and peaceful. Each fleeting image in my mind's eye involves sunshine. But also water, and movement. My body and soul need to feel warmth, motion and transition to get that same feeling of satisfaction that Puck seems to feel — lying still, reaching for the sun.

I have told myself for years that I can't meditate. In a dark room, with a block and a yoga pad, or a blanket and bolster, I find my mind wanders. I struggle to follow the instructions. Breathe deeply. Pant. Breathe in stages. Through the nose, through the mouth, from the belly, from the ends of my toes, clear the mind, etc, etc. And at times it works. I can empty my mind, and stop the incessant processing of my day, my troubles, my impressions. I can drop into the unthinking and unknowing place, and feel the serenity and peace. But mostly I think about my bad posture, my sore sitz bones, and feel a general sense of unease, and I wonder if anyone else in the room is having trouble, too. I try to imagine myself lying in a patch of sunlight, like Puck does so well, or out on the water, and that helps.

Mish Morgenstern hails from sunnier climes in the southern hemisphere, but now calls Midcoast Maine home, and enjoys spending her down time either cavorting in the hills or playing on the water. Mish balances working with documentary film company Compass Light as production office manager and being a single mother, with her passions for landscape photography, writing and travel. She is motivated by oceans, people, visual stories, the outdoors, unique connections, beauty, lights and music. Her photographs can be seen at mishmorgenstern.com.

When I truly need to switch off, I reach for my kayak and my paddle. I crave the feeling of floating between two worlds, of being right on the surface of the water. The "v" of water that forms from the bow of the boat enticing me on a still, calm day. The water's surface silvery, soft and sparkling, inviting the intrusion. The swirl formed by where the paddle pulls out, so sensuous. I like to keep my head bowed and my body still as I paddle in rhythm, watching swirl after swirl fade behind me, as my blade pops out and reenters in the calm ahead of me.

I remember a time in Rockport Harbor, surrounded by mist and fog. A sunrise paddle on a warm, moist, early summer morning. I had entered at the boat launch and was the only person-powered vessel on the water. There were plenty of working boats heading out, with squawking, swirling companions in their wake. I paddled hard and fast out of the center harbor to get away from the clamor.

It felt wonderful to flex, push and glide my way out past the bobbing, tethered boats to the open water near Indian Island. Each stroke pulling me closer to where my heart lies. Once out in the open bay, I eased up the pace and then stopped paddling completely, allowing my momentum to push me along on the surface for as long as it felt right. Peace. Complete mind, body and soul — full peace. The lobster boats now just a faint moan in the distance. The gulls that follow them a high lilt, nothing more.

The echo of the waves slopping gently onto the rocky coast to the west of me a constant beat, with the overriding sense of it all a quiet, and a gently supportive calm. The early morning is my favorite time. The magical, stolen time between sunrise and the hectic busy-ness of the day seems a gift provided solely as time for reflection and marveling. Like a window into a parallel universe. I am able to see more deeply, with greater clarity, and as if I have been allowed to open my eyes more widely than is possible in the brightness of noon or the gloaming of the evening. My hearing is sharper. My skin tingles. And I see connections not as clear to me when the to-do's, the what-if's and the don't forget's begin to crowd in.

Transformations

We tell stories.

We tell stories to make sense of our lives.

We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.

We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.

Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students. Our stories will be about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.

— Kathrin Seitz

“Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” — Henry Miller

Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at kathrin@kathrinseitz.com.

On this particular morning I picked up the pace and headed north towards Camden. It was early enough that I didn't have to turn right around and head back to the boat launch, the car, the house. My shower, my breakfast, and my work for the day all lay ahead but I knew all of it could wait. I had time to allow myself to go deep in this beautiful morning, to push my body and feel to support of the water around me. I had recently made huge changes in my life. My divorce had just gone through, my kids spent their weekends with their dad, and their weekdays with me. I was living in a new town, working long hours, making new friends, mowing my own lawn, and making it all happen in a powerful and liberating way. This morning's opportunity to be afloat, and in my zone, on a work day, had come from nowhere as the kids had decided to stay a Sunday night with their dad, and I was grateful for the chance be in that place, in that moment.

My body remembered the old motion, the hip lift, the push and pull of the muscles in my arms, my shoulders, my back, my feet pushing on the foot rests. My belly pulled up and tight, my eyes on the water just forward of the bow. My breathing became regular and my awareness became wide. I could sense it all. The lap of the salt water on the side of the boat, the song of the gulls in the distance, the beat of my heart, the rise and fall of the lobster-boat wake beneath me... it all felt right, and perfect, and as if I was the luckiest person in the whole world.

I reached Camden and floated for a while near Curtis Island. An old man walked the length of his waterfront lawn, bending and standing, picking something up from the ground over and over. I imagined him picking violets from the grass for his beloved, who would be inside, making the tea. Two loons swam by — one on watch with her red eye trained on me, the other ducking in and out of the water — as if tracking their fishing grounds. The hills that rise up behind the town were still hazy with the rising fog and colored blue in the early morning light. Two of the live-aboard yacht families moored in the outer harbor were heading in to town in their dinghies, laden with bags and boisterous children.

I decided it was time to head home. I kept my distance as I rounded a rocky ledge where an extended family of seals lay snuffling, their interest piqued but seemingly too lazy to move, and began to hit my rhythm again. The water was beginning to ruffle as the morning south-westerly wind filled in. I paddled into the breeze, coursing through the patterns forming on the water's surface and felt a tremendous surge of delight and power. I realized in that moment, that I could forget about ever going to another meditation retreat. I could let myself off the hook of "not being spiritual enough". This was my meditation. This is truly my patch of sunlight, my yoga mat, my place of peace. Where I become completely absorbed in the moment, and everything becomes clear. That in reaching for the next paddle stroke, I find the deeper wisdoms of my body, of my mind and of my soul. The two worlds I sit between are not just water and air, but my own conscious and unconscious realities, and by being here, I am perfectly and serenely happy.