IQ Test

If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?

Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.

“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”

“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.

“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.

 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”

She begins.

• If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?

(Unlikely)

• Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?

(None of the above)

• Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?

(Carrots)

• Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?

(To hide)

(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)

(Pass)

• When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?

(Run amok)

• Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?

(Beer)

• Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?

(Pretty much all of them)

• How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?

(None of your business)

(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)

“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”

The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”

“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm.

The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”