Meditation
Michelengelo sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. His eyes were closed and on his face was a look of pure tranquillity. To his right sat Donatello, and behind them Raphael and Leonardo, all in the same pose. All with almost the same expression on their faces. Raph, Michelangelo imagined, might not look quite so calm as his brothers, his impatience and temper tended to show even when he slept, but the youngest turtle was sure that all his brothers were doing as they were instructed. All but himself.
Master Splinter sat facing them, also cross-legged, probably with his eyes closed, as he spoke, slowly and calmly, guiding his sons in their meditation.
Michelangelo wondered whether master Splinter kept his eyes closed. They had been closed at the start of the exercise, because Mikey had checked before closing his own. He imagined that they remained closed, although he had never dared to open his own eyes to check. Somehow, though, whenever Mikey did something he wasn't supposed to, Splinter knew. Last week he had been forced to straighten his leg to ward off a cramp, and master Splinter had known, probably hearing his son's movements. The time before that, almost a month ago, Mikey had sneezed. Twice. Two unbelievably loud sneezes that had echoed around the room for what seemed like hours. On that occasion it was no mystery how master Splinter had known.
He had not been punished on either occasion, but the knowledge that even stretching his leg had earned him a stern word from his sensei stopped Michelangelo from scratching the itch. The two itches, actually. One just below his right eye, and the other on the back of his head. They were not the kind of itches that could be ignored. Both screamed out for attention, begging him to scratch them and be done with it. They made it impossible for him to concentrate on anything else, including meditation.
For a moment, the well practiced yet, on this occasion, completely fake look of peace on the turtle's face was broken as he twitched his eye three times in rapid succession, trying to pacify the itch. He smiled to himself as it worked, then sat motionless once again.
As if the compensate, the itch on the back of his head doubled in intensity. He tried to work out how long they had been sitting there in an effort to estimate how much longer he had to remain still. He had no idea. Too long, he decided eventually. The itch wouldn't wait. He opened one eye, not even half way, and looked at Splinter. Both of his master's eyes were firmly shut. Mikey closed his eye again and quietly moved his hand up to the itch, rubbed it until it went away, then returned the hand to his lap. The whole operation was carried out so silently that even Mikey had heard nothing. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see whether his actions had been noticed, then, when Splinter said nothing, allowed himself a smile of victory.
"Michelangelo," Splinter said, immediately wiping the smile from his face, "please keep your mind on the task at hand. Were you concentrating fully on your meditation, an itch would not bother you. No outward distraction need interrupt unless you allow them to do so. Be aware of everything, but be controlled by nothing but your own mind."
Mikey's mouth almost dropped open, but didn't for two reasons. One, he had expected to be caught, and two, he didn't want to be caught again. Instead he tried to focus his mind on, as Splinter had requested, the task at hand.
Unfortunately, the task at hand was meditation, and Mikey's least favorite thing to do was meditation. He just wasn't the sit still type.
He tried to center his thoughts, tried to concentrate on his sensei's voice as it guided them through the exercise, but every few minutes he realized that once again his mind had wondered and he needed to start again. Each time it seemed more difficult, as though his mind was determined to pull him into another thought.
'All this effort to relax,' he thought to himself. He knew, of course, that meditation was much more than a method of relaxation, but relaxation was a major part of it. To rid the body of the stresses of the day and prepare for the next battle. To Michelangelo the best way to relax was by sitting in front of the TV with a pizza, or playing a video game. All this sitting still wasn't relaxing. In fact, is seemed to be having the opposite effect.
He wondered to himself whether he would watch a movie later. Raph had brought home two new DVDs the day before, and Mikey wanted to watch them, but which one first? They both looked good. In his mind's eye he imagined the covers of the two movies, trying to decide which of the two looked the best. Suddenly, the two cases grew arms and legs, and one hit he other with its fist, causing it to stagger backwards.
The second case then retaliated with a spinning kick, "He's going to watch me!" The DVD screamed. Somewhere inside his mind a voice told Mikey that he was dreaming, but he didn't care. This was so much easier than meditation.
"And now, my sons, you may open your eyes," Splinter said, open his own as he spoke. Donatello stretched his arms before standing up, while Leonardo blinked several times and looked around. Raphael, however, leapt immediately to his feet.
"I'm starved," he announced, "Donny, your turn to cook."
"Cook?" asked Donatello, "Aren't we having that left over pizza from yesterday?"
Raph nodded, "Yeah," he said, "fine, if you want me to be exact it's your turn to heat up yesterday's pizza."
Don nodded and headed to the kitchen, while Raph sat down on the couch. Leo was about to leave when he notice Mikey hadn't moved.
"Michelangelo," Splinter said, "the meditation is over." There was no response.
Leo grabbed his brother's shoulder and shook gently, "Mikey?" he asked.
This time Mikey's position shifted slightly and he made a quite noise, a snore.
Leo and Splinter shared a look and an almost imperceptible ghost of a smile flickered across Splinter's face.
"Mikey!" said Leo again, louder this time, shaking his shoulder harder, "Wake up, meditation's over."
By this time, Raph had been drawn back to the scene. "Yo, Mikey!" he said, rapping his knuckles on his brother's head. Mikey muttered something that none of the onlookers could understand, and then settled down again.
"Perhaps we should allow him to sleep," Splinter suggested.
Raph shrugged and returned to the couch, while once again, Leo tried shaking his brother's shoulder and calling his name. Once again it had no effect.
Ten minutes passed and still Mikey sat, asleep and cross-legged on the floor. Eventually, just as Raph was about to ask Don what was taking to long, the aroma of pizza began to waft out of the kitchen. Donatello appeared soon afterwards to announce that dinner was ready. His eyes fixed immediately on Mikey, still sitting on the floor.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Mikey's asleep," Raph told him, "the idiot nodded off while we were meditating and he won't wake up. Come and try, he'd probably sleep through the roof caving in."
"Yeah, he would," agreed Don, "but I know what he won't sleep through." He disappeared back into the kitchen. Raphael looked at Leo and Splinter to see whether they had any idea what Don was planning. Both shrugged. Raph wondered to himself whether Don had invented some kind of device specifically for waking up their brother. It would certainly come in handy if he had. Seconds later Don reappeared, holding a slice of pizza in his hand. He strode over to his brother and held the food in front of his face.
Immediately, Mikey's eyes snapped open, "Dinner ready?" he asked.
Donatello grinned, "Works every time," he said as he helped his brother to his feet.
"Michelangelo," Splinter said, before his son had the chance to disappear into the kitchen with his brothers, "you must learn to remain awake during meditation, and also to wake more easily. Had we been under attack, you would not have known."
"Sorry, sensei," Mikey said.
"Hmm," was all the answer Splinter gave. He watched Michelangelo walk away. If there was a cure for being a deep sleeper, Splinter decided that he would find it. A ninja must always be aware. In the meantime however, he would talk to Leonardo about carrying a spare slice of pizza whenever the brothers needed to spend the night away from home. Not very practical but, in this case, perhaps necessary. In Michelangelo's case, pizza might quite literally mean the difference between life and death.