"Every Wednesday evening I attend a two-hour meditation class. The people who teach the class do not neatly fall into any category: funny, down-to-earth, compassionate, disciplined. I want to be like them when I grow up, I think to myself. Because our meditation practice also does not fall into any neat categories, they have already taught me so much.

Our meditation is not about emptying the mind but in learning to make peace with a spiraling, racing, overactive brain. Our meditation is teaching us that peace has nothing to do with quiet or comfort or stillness; rather peace is an inner space, closely related to faith. In our meditation we do not sit in knots. Nor do we mindlessly chant a mantra; nor does anyone presume that our meditation is a means to convert us into saints or monkettes.

In fact in one of our first classes, one teacher told us the story of a man who lived at the time of Buddha, about 2,500 years ago, in India. The man was a famous serial killer rapist who tormented villagers. On one of his rampages, he came into contact with the great teacher, Buddha, and decided to become a disciple, a monk. For many years the man practiced the life of a monk and wandered in his saffron robes, begging for alms as is the Buddhist custom. One day he returned to one of the villages where he had destroyed lives. The villagers attacked him--nearly killing him. Wounded, broken, indignant, the man returned to his teacher and complained. The Buddha heard him out and after a moment replied, "live with it!"

The sole purpose of our class is to teach us how to deal with who we are and how to make the most of our present circumstances.

Last Wednesday, in the cool evening air, enclosed in a concrete courtyard, we practiced a walking meditation (theoretically you could use nail biting or smoking as a meditation if you chose). We focused on the process of shifting focus to the other side and repeating. I misunderstood the instructions (my friends would sigh and say I wasn't listening) and did my meditation with my eyes closed.

At first I struggled to keep my balance. Nothing focuses the attention more than the sensation of falling over. So every fiber of my being concentrated on balance. Then I noticed I was gripping the earth with my toes as if without my grip, I'd float off the planet. I relaxed my scrunched up toes. I balanced and took small steps. When we were stopped for further instructions, I opened my eyes and discovered I had walked in a near perfect straight line. We returned to our meditation. I walked back and forth across the courtyard, with my eyes closed, in straight lines.

By focusing on balance, not holding on too tight, I arrived effortlessly at my destination. I wanted to turn cartwheels and holler "Whoopee!" because for the first time in 20 years, I could trust myself. For 20 years I've cowered before villagers who threw stones: "Worthless" "Why didn't you...?" "If only...." "How could you?" "You idiot!" "Why bother?" "You don't deserve..." For a few minutes the villagers were still and cast no stones: A joyful peaceful quiet shimmered in my chest--I can trust myself. Balance. A light grip. Small steps. I'm learning to live with the villagers." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, July 14, 2005)

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'