The first one felt right, there was nothing deeper considered, just that feeling that now, I know, anyone might have provided but then, it was something in a world of nothing.
The second, really, was certainly right, for life this time, the wisdom of a single failure enough to ensure success, and when it came apart thirty years later, it was apparent it was never right, just more than nothing.
This one is right, for it does not require feeling so, merely being in her presence, a completeness I never knew, which explains why this time nothing can get in the way of the ultimate everything.
A wise Buddhist teacher once told me that anything you do, if you do it mindfully, can be a form of meditation, and I have taken this into my practice, albeit with mixed success, but that is one reason they call it practice.
Walking silently, following your breath in and out, aware of your feet, the earth, the sky is definitely meditative.
Chopping onions, carefully drawing the knife thorough the layers creating neatly incised bits is certainly meditative.
Sitting by a pond watching the sun slowly set it ablaze as the breeze ruffles the surface is absolutely meditative.
But folding laundry, no matter how mindfully I approach the task always and quickly morphs into a mindless search for the missing sock.