I feel⎼ my feelings are so complex right now. I feel myself sitting in this chair, warm in my midsection, with a hint of coldness in my hands. Outside, the sun shines brightly on the white snow that covers the ground. There is such beauty in the first snows of the season, in the contrast between the utter white of the snow and the brown gray of tree trunks, the tan wood supports of the carport, the blue jays and cardinals on the ground, people walking on the wet street.
The world seems so clear, fresh, and alive. Yet, behind my eyes, a tension threatens to impose itself on or obliterate what I see.
How do I face this tension? This looming sense of threat? Do I focus on thoughts that arise, question them, or follow them back like an archaeologist exposing the ruins of the past that remain in the present?
Or do I focus on the specific details of a perception? The call of the blue jay? The snow resting on the bare branch of an apple tree? Or do I let my eyes rest on the entire scene?
Or do I feel the air entering, refreshing my body? Passing over my upper lip and moving inside, down to my chest, belly, and even feet. Each in-breath with a beginning, middle, and end. And then a pause. Everything quiets. And then my belly and diaphragm push up. An exhalation begins.
Or as I inhale, the area expands and the tension in my forehead, temples, or jaw is diffused. And as I exhale, I let go.
The scene outside might seem so permanent, almost. Sometimes. It is so easy to think that nothing will ever change. That the threats of today will continue. And it is true there will always be threats. But there will also always be beauty and love.
This scene only exists because it is constantly changing. The earth itself, which can seem immobile, frozen in place, is moving through space while spinning on its axis, so we have day and night, and seasons. It moves in relation to other planetary bodies, like the moon, so we have tides. It moves internally, which is why we have earthquakes, the migration of continents, volcanoes, weather patterns⎼ and wind, rain, and snow. And we know how dangerous as well as beautiful many of these changes can be.
Outside the window, two crows glide into the scene crying raucously.
We, our body, and our emotions, can also seem so set, permanent. Yet, we are alive because of the constant movement of breathing. We see because of the constant movement of and in our eyes. We hear because of the changes taking place every second in our ears and brain. We are sad, then happy. We are 6 years old, then 60. We know this⎼ yet we don’t. It’s obvious everything changes. What’s not so obvious, borrowing from Buddhist teacher Albert Low, is that everything is change.
Thinking is change made conscious. In order to think, what goes on inside our head and body must change. Blood must flow. Nerves fire in waves and at different wavelengths. Like the earth, the brain goes through its own cycles, of sleep/awake, of which side of the brain dominates, etc. Thinking involves telling ourselves stories, remembering and learning, questioning what we believe. When we look closely, what we thought brilliant one moment, we find full of holes, missing depth, or embarrassing in the next. Our insight today can depend on unearthing the ruins and beauties of yesterday.
How we feel and even what we perceive depends not only on what we look at, or what is in front of us, but even more on how we respond to what we look at. Our attitude, maybe. Our openness, or willingness to look and listen. Our belief in our own capacity to see, feel, and think. To embrace. And all of this changes constantly.
After two years of a pandemic, it can be difficult to embrace anything. Yet even though we must be extremely cautious right now about who, where, or what we embrace physically, what we do with our mind and heart is something else.
So, when we feel stuck. Hurt. Or powerless. That we don’t or can’t change the world, or can’t change the political situation, or can’t even think about doing so. Or we think we shouldn’t have to face what we face, or feel what we feel, or there’s something wrong with us for feeling as we do.
We can focus on the movement of our breath. Or listen to the cardinal, blue jay, crow, or car horn⎼ or the children shouting. Or the wind and rain. Or the feel of our hands resting in our lap. Or the sight of snow on the bare branch of an apple tree. Or inside the house or workplace or school, on our favorite chair or piece of art. The smell of a blooming house plant or something cooking. Or the memory of a smile, or of something compassionate or insightful we’ve said or done.
Or we can switch our attention from a narrow, concentrated focus to one more open, so our senses rest on the whole scene that is before us without holding on too tightly to any one thing. Whatever we decide to practice, we begin with just 2 or 3 minutes, no more. We get used to it gradually, so a sense of joy develops, and we add to it only as we feel comfortable doing so.
And then we feel our place in the world, that we affect who and what we see. So, why not do it deliberately, mindfully, lovingly? Why not recognize that we are always the world itself, changing itself? We are one of millions or billions who are trying to move the world closer to kindness. We can be, maybe must be⎼ or as much as we can we must be⎼ the most active and aware version of what we wish the world to be.
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