My New Spiritual Practice

After many years of taking workshops in the world's religions, meditation, spiritual parenting, yoga, and chi kong, I have hit upon an excellent spiritual practice of my own design: not watching the news coverage of Michael Jackson's child molestation trial.

I'm only a day into this new modality, and already, I must tell you, I feel so light and free.

How does not doing something become a way to praise God or express devotion, you might ask? True, most of the time, we consider a good spiritual practice to be something like meditating, or praying at specific hours of the day. But many Jews avoid foods that aren't kosher. And contemplative orders of monks and nuns refuse to mix with the workaday world. Christians give up pleasurable things like chocolate, or even sex, for Lent. So I--journalist and general news junkie--am swearing off the Jackson trial. I know it's a step toward a greater good.

This idea came to me yesterday morning, as I stood in our kitchen, cooking breakfast for my husband and two children while watching ABC's "Good Morning America." There was Cynthia McFadden, one smart lady, looking glamorous and buff, as if she's actually dieted and exercised to prepare for these next six Jackson-packed months.

Another trial of the century. Jury selection. Oh goodie.

But then, as I heard the lovely padding footsteps of our eight-year-old son Gordon coming down the hall, I quickly turned off the television. He knows superstar Michael Jackson is in some sort of trouble. Why wrap my darling boy up in this debacle any further?

Then a leaden feeling cascaded down on me, and I had an odd awakening. I realized that I've been sitting on a lot of rage since...since when? I'm sure now it began with the Scott and Laci Peterson brouhaha, which the networks covered so devotedly. Back then, as I watched and examined the meaning of Laci Peterson's demise, I thought, "This is a tragic event, but the news coverage is farcical."

If I spare my son this tawdriness, why wouldn't I similarly nurture myself? Why wouldn't I love myself enough to stop watching Jackson's tedious entreaties, the endless blow-by-blow dissection, when instead I could do something else, anything else in that moment, to uplift my spirit?

We all know why we gaze at the coverage of these high-profile trials. It's titillating. It makes our own dull lives seem so much more exemplary. But must I continue to spend precious moments of my life mired in something that is toxic to my spiritual development and demeaning to my humanity?

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