The first time I remember meditating I was about 18 or 19. I was a little late to the teenage angst party, though misanthropy might be a more apt description. I spent a lot of time playing video games, wandering around the neighborhood in the middle of the night with friends and not sleeping.

I can’t remember the exact first time I meditated, but my first meditation memory is a blissful island in a sea of self-inflicted, pseudo misery and the unremarkable around that time.

I had been awake for about 30 hours. I believe it was late spring, and the sun was just rising. I was sitting at my computer desk listening to some random guided meditation .mp3 that I found online. A subtle wave flooded my senses through my open window. A chorus of morning birdsongs carried in on the morning dew by an ever so gentle breeze. While subtle and gentle might not seem like much of a flood, my mind was still enough that, outside of the little world of my bedroom and my open window, there was nothing else.

I believe I had recently read about belly breathing, also called diaphragmatic breathing. As the belly expands on inhalation, the diaphragm contracts creating a small vacuum in your lungs drawing in air. If you watch an infant breathe, you’ll notice their belly rise and fall as they inhale and exhale.

Since that first meditation memory, I’ve had a handful of similar experiences both in and out of practiced meditation. Once, a good friend and I climbed up the side of a very steep hill to a little ledge that we saw while driving some forest service roads. Sitting on that little ledge, looking out over the valley, above all the trees, I felt all of it. I don’t just mean everything that I saw. I felt everything, like I was not just one in a universe of many, but the entirety. I was in the only perfect spot for me at that moment. My friend disappears from my recollection briefly, but he’s there before and after.

After I joined the Army, I didn’t really meditate for several years. I guess I didn’t start again until I got out and moved back to my home state of Washington. I was diagnosed with PTSD just before I got out, but that’s a story for another time. As part of trying to heal, I saw a VA counselor who specialized in mindfulness meditation.

Initially, I got frustrated when my mind would wander, I’d have an itch, or something else broke my concentration. The PSC itching was the worst. Whatever the issues were, I couldn’t seem to meditate how I thought it was supposed to be done.

Anyway, there was one session with my meditation counselor where I brought up my frustrations. After the typical therapy back and forth, she finally told me there was no right way. If my mind wandered, notice it and bring my attention back to the object of my focus, which was generally my breathe and body. If I had an itch, go ahead and scratch if I felt the need.

It was a difficult thing to do. Not only had I been treating it like a challenge to be conquered, but I had several perfect moments like before that I almost desperately wanted to reach again.

We had a shed that a friend and I insulated for a music space where I meditated. I didn’t have the same kind of external experience as before. With practice, I got to where I no longer felt where my body ended. I was my soul, a form of pure energy, or a shape of light. I was not my body or its limitations as it seemed to disappear. I’m not saying that I had a true out of body experience, that’s just how it felt.

For the past several years, I haven’t regularly done much mediation. I’ve done the occasional guided meditation before falling asleep. I’ve also meditated when ill or injured, concentrating on whatever the affliction and thoughts of healing. It seems to work to some degree, and whether it’s a direct effect or similar to a placebo effect doesn’t matter to me. It’s also helpful just as a relaxation technique in those kinds of stressful situations.

Running is my main meditation practice now. The same skills and concentration I learned in mindfulness meditation are incredibly useful while running. I can concentrate on keeping as much of my body relaxed as possible and make necessary adjustments. It also keeps me present in the moment, not thinking about how far I have left to go, which makes a big difference on long runs when I’m out there for 3-4 hours or more. When I’m really present in the moment, I don’t notice much difference between 1 and 4 hour long runs, besides the more worn out muscles.

There are rhythms to our bodies. The circadian rhythm for sleep. The steady rhythm of our hearts beating. Inhaling and exhaling as air passes through our lungs, and oxygen transfers to our blood. There’s even a ratio between our heartbeat and breathing. At rest, the average person’s hearts beats 4-5 times per breath.

When I’m running, I focus on the perceptible rhythms of my body. I’ve developed a cadence of about 180 foot strikes per minute. The swinging of my arms keeping time on the off beat. I match my breath rate to my cadence. For an easy pace: in, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4… A little harder: in, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3… Up to running hard: in, 2, out, 2… I even find myself inadvertently marking cadence with my breaths in a slight staccato beat with my foot strikes, rather than a smooth in and out.

With my rhythm section established, my mind constantly scans my body and mechanics. Head straight. Pelvis neutral. How are my feet landing? Step over that tree root, between those rocks. Relax my shoulders. Try to use only the minimally required muscles and relax everything else.

It seems like a lot to keep track of, but it’s become nearly second nature. Then I can start to go over plans, come up with ideas, admire the mountains, relish the sun on my skin, wrangle my dogs, and when I’m truly lucky, have another little perfect moment. Several months ago, I chased a rainbow on a Sunday evening about 14 miles into a 20 mile run. Nearing the end of an 8 mile combination hill and tempo workout, I had about a 5 second burst of very potent “runner’s high.” A couple years ago, I was running on the side of a mountain on an old logging road with a sheer rock face on the uphill side and a very steep drop to the downhill side, with the sun on my skin, bits of snow hiding in the shadowy crooks and crannies of the draw above, to where I was heading, mountain goats up higher still, and the aroma of the sunbaked duff filling my nostrils.

I don’t meditate in a typical manner too often anymore. Running has become my mediation practice.