Sometimes you stumble across things that remind you of one of the central things you always find worth remembering. Today, for instance, I happened across this poem. . .
Instructions for the Journey*
By Pat Schneider
The self you leave behind
is only a skin you have outgrown.
Don’t grieve for it.
Look to the wet, raw, unfinished
self, the one you are becoming.
The world, too, sheds its skin:
politicians, cataclysms, ordinary days.
It’s easy to lose this tenderly
unfolding moment. Look for it
as if it were the first clear tone
in a place where dawn is heralded by bells.
And if all that fails,
wash your own dishes,
Rinse them.
Stand in your kitchen at your sink.
Let cold water run between your fingers.
Feel it.
It’s that easy, really. A mere shift of attention. A choice to notice that you’re alive, in the very center of this tenderly unfolding moment, bathed in its light and color and motion and sound.
You notice your body—what it’s doing, how it’s positioned, how it feels, what emotions are flowing through it.
For a moment, you might even be startled by the wonder of it, by the reality of breathing, of air itself, and by the fact that you have skin and hands and eyes, all doing miraculous things for you without your even paying them attention,
They don’t last long, these snatches of awareness. We get pulled back into the tasks at hand, into our planning, our figuring out, our memories and goals and dreams. But we had that moment, and it refreshes us somehow.
And all that it takes to have more is a little reminder, some tug, to notice, to pay attention. Because it’s always right here. Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re feeling, you’re always right here, too, in this moment in time, in this kaleidoscopic, every-changing world.
When you find yourself in one of these moments where your attention shifts to the wonder of it all, to the wonder of the fact that, despite all odds, you’re alive in the very midst of it, thank yourself for noticing. That will teach your brain how nice it is to remind you, from time to time, to notice.
And, as the poet said, if all else fails, wash your own dishes. Watch how your hands know how to move. See the soapsuds. Feel the water.
Say thank you.
Wishing you a week of noticing.
Warmly,
Susan
*From The Poetry of Presence, An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems,
© 2017 Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby Wilson, editors [God bless them.]
www.graysonbooks.com
www.poetryofpresencebook.com
Treat yourself to a copy. It’s filled with the kind of words you need to hear just when you need to hear them.