On retreat, where the focus of attention is being in silence and wondering about life, the noise of one’s own story can get very dim.
Or practically turn off.
Or not have so much meaning, or any meaning.
It’s weird.
Today I’ve been sitting in silence, feeling the quiet of the environment.
Doves cooing, a light breeze blowing through the open screened window, a murmur of voices in the far off kitchen.
Sound is present, and pictures float across my mind–even during meditation sessions.
That upcoming retreat, where I will apparently be the facilitator (although everyone will be facilitating themselves really).
My drive home–I get a flash of being on the road heading north, not south.
Noticing the thought “it will be Thursday” about when this will happen.
A feeling in the body rises up like a little flare–an ache in an area that was injured–then falls back down.
The thought of sleepiness, and idea “I could get coffee” and watching the body not move, and not go to sleep either.
A tune falls through the space, from inside my head, a song I find hilarious and love dancing to “I’m so fancy….”
Why is that song repeating itself, when the last time I heard it was over a week ago probably?
Shoes inside of slippers, weight of blanket, flashes of color from a prism outside shining in the sun and sparkling in a circle through this living room.
So much happening, in this now.
Everything so temporary, like a match being lit, shining, burning out, smoke.
Is this the “I am” my friend Nisargadatta talks about, the thing underneath all stories, the thing that watches everything pass by?
Coming out of nothing and nowhere, going into nothing and nowhere.
Who would you be without your story…..of this world?
Watching it.
Understanding nothing.
Trusting. Loving.
“We each have our private salvation project…..but if I can learn to be happy even though I’m not getting my own way, that’s the end of suffering.” ~ Richard Rohr
Much love, Grace