Why Meditating on a Roller Coaster Was a Game Changer

In the cramped, dingy bathroom of a crowded amusement park, I splashed cold water on my face and made awkward eye contact with myself in the mirror. “You certainly Do you want to do this?” I asked myself as if I were my father. “You’re not just going along with it to look cool, are you?”

I was referring to the fact that my friends and I planned to go on a huge, angry-looking roller coaster. Its path was filled with so many twists, turns and loops, I was sure the centrifugal force would permanently affect Picasso’s face.

As a child, I couldn’t get enough of the thrill of amusement park rides, including roller coasters. Anticipation while waiting in line. the Whoosh From the take-off that left me speechless and unable to think. Click click click the ecstatic free rise and fall that crept into my heart.

Things changed as I got older. I’ve only ridden one roller coaster my entire twenties. Every second of waiting — in line, on the ship, or boarding before the first big drop — felt like torture. A heart attack waiting to happen. I’ve learned that I prefer my stomach exactly where it is, thank you very much.

But one particular afternoon last month, my friends and I found ourselves at this amusement park simply as a result of having a “yeah, and…” kind of day. You know, the kind that says, “Should we get Mexican food?” It turns into, “Should we stop at this amusement park on the way home?” It was a strange summer’s day, when the only appropriate response to the idea of ​​adventure, as long as the sun was shining, was: “Why not?”

I was quickly awakened by the gut cries of those on the flight we were approaching. Not to mention, my OCD was OCD. Imagined lines of dialogue from possible futures echoed against the very real decline of the clanking of metal on metal. “She had a promising future…until she got on that roller coaster when she was 32.”

Somewhat comforted by the fact that there is an actual children Waiting next to me for the same flight, I tried to distract myself with a little mindfulness. “I’m waiting in line,” I thought. This feeling is still laden with impending doom. “I’m standing.” I felt better. Then, as the line moved, I thought: “I’m walking.” I alternated between thoughts about the literal thing I was doing to “You’re making an irreversible mistake!” The warning plastic box containing people’s defaced cell phones with the following warning: “Remove all loose items from your pockets!” It didn’t completely calm me down either.

Finally, we were locked and loaded into the machine. I committed to trying the flight, and was relieved to know that I couldn’t go back — at least without publicly crying to the flight operator to let me get off. In the fleeting moments between sitting in the seat and moving away, I felt alive and fully present. Like a bird whose head moves in all directions at the slightest movement or perceptible sound.

One of my friends sitting in the car in front of me turned around and suggested that we all keep our hands in the air for the duration of the trip. As I asked him to stop talking (in more animated language), our conversation evaporated into thin air as the flight took off.

Suddenly my body became helpless in the face of the speed, movement and rhythm of riding. Once we turned right, we turned left. We stepped up and straightened out. We went down and back up again faster than I can think of. I closed my eyes. I felt my body tightening and my mind struggling with the fact that I was pure chaos with no predictable pattern. How do I calm down when massive panic is rising in my chest?

No doubt as a result of the hundreds of yoga classes I’ve taken throughout my life, I thought: “Focus on your breath.” So I did.

At first it was shallow. But after a few seconds, I felt my stomach push against the restrictions on my inhalation. My exhalations also deepened. Then I felt something completely strange: my muscles relaxed a little.

I imagined “breathing transmission” in every erratic motion and high-speed spin of the roller coaster. I also imagined my breath expanding in my body and my body expanding in all directions. As a result, I was less shocked by the bait-and-switch effect in opposite directions because I was opening myself up more forcefully. I was giving up.

Throughout the trip, I continued to breathe, thinking “in” on the inhale and “out” on the exhale. When a sudden downturn or vortex distracted me from my mission, I went “inside” and “outside” again.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t having a very good time. I was still on a roller coaster. But I was shocked that despite the disturbing elements around me—the steel beams, the screaming (my own), and the high speeds—I was able to control my breathing. Even when I was upside down, my breathing calmed me down. To help me let go. What surprised me most was that it actually was Easier For me to meditate on a roller coaster more than it often does in yoga classes. Maybe because focusing on my breathing was the only sensible option in the face of this threat to my survival that I willingly signed up for under the guise of “It’s going to be fun!”

The ride eventually ended and when I opened my eyes, I felt exhausted and a little dizzy. Not surprisingly, I once again swore off roller coasters. But the lessons the trip taught me were not lost, and I appreciate yoga for the fact that I was receptive to it at all. They were, of course, about life. How when we resist we create more pain. When we open ourselves up to any experience, we don’t have to panic about whether or not we’re “supposed” to do something, or whether or not we’ll regret it. Maybe it’s not about trusting the journey, but trusting ourselves to experience it.