I may be about over the whole Be In The Moment routine. You know the drill – the sheer beauty of the miracle pulsating around you fills you with wonder and peace and contentment and awe.
When I’m mindful, I notice that my feet stick to the kitchen floor because someone dribbled god knows what all over it. I notice the algae swaying in the toilet. I notice spider veins building elaborate webs on my thighs. I notice that the horrifying hairs in my nose not only need clipping but are now white. I notice that every appliance in my home is old and ready to die. I notice that my bank account is not prepared for appliance reincarnation. I notice that, if I just change the year on my ambitious 2018 list of resolutions, it’s all virgin territory.
I like my reality blurred around the edges.
Discretionary Mindfulness is my cup of tea — an elegant philosophical system that allows one to ignore unpleasantness. One is encouraged to stick one’s head in the sand. One is excused from reading newspaper headlines. One can remove the verb “to trump” from one’s vocabulary. One can ignore that “check engine soon” light. One can consider a weekly lottery ticket a sound retirement plan.
Run-of-the-mill mindfulness is a capricious cup of coffee:
I sit at my Friday morning desk, breathe deeply, and sort through stacks of pressing busy-ness. I savor my piles of papers, finding beauty in the work at hand.
I take ceremonial pleasure in preparing a cup of coffee. I wash yesterday’s debris from my mug and see in that a metaphor for abundant life. I breathe deeply. I fill my coffee machine with fresh clean water and reflect upon how fortunate I am.
I relish the coffee’s comforting smell as it brews behind me. I breathe deeply again. Even the sound of that coffee is heightened! Every drip sounds different. Every drop is distinct. Such beauty, in paying attention! My ears are suddenly alive! My coffee is a virtual waterfall!
My coffee IS a waterfall. My cup sits beside the bubbling brook.
I breathe deeply and appreciate the rich evocative language on my tongue.
Welcome back, Missy! You have been missed.
Bliss consists, in part, of the ability to ignore things that block bliss.
So it’s OK to be an ostrich! I somehow always feel guilty. Then again, I always feel guilty. If I felt better about the state of my butt I’d be happier about assuming that head-in-the-sand pose.
Ah. yes… the “really?” moments out of which I never seem to run. (Note the non-danglingness of my perfectly sculpted sentence?).
The picture doesn’t show the path of that coffee — right down into a drawer full of office supplies, and from there leaking lower into the desk and out onto the floor. And the smell of stale spilled coffee is so awful . . .
So nice to hear about your be-in-the-now moments. I have recently made coffee with no water, and another time, with water but no coffee. And I thought I was awake both times.
The only thing worse is when you pick up yesterday’s leftover half a cup and take a swig. I think I’ve finally learned to empty the mug before I leave work for the day . . .
Yes, no one ever mentions how the waterfall just gets everything soaking wet. How the babbling brook carves out the river bank beneath it with inexorable (yet babbling) teeth. How the breeze outside usually blows trash into your front yard.
Those are bleak pre-coffee thoughts, my friend. The cup tends to look half full rather than half empty once you’ve chugged a healthy portion of it (without waiting for it to cool down, so you scald your tongue — which also serves to wake you up). Granted, the wind blows other people’s trash into my yard — but it also magically whisks my own away. New crap is at least better than the same old crap, yes?
Getting that daily disaster out of the way early, always a good idea. Wait, could you have more than one in a day?. . . It is good to have you back. We have been trying to call you. Did you change phone numbers?
We did get your messages last night, favorite friends, and were planning to call tomorrow evening when all the stars align. Have both been in a slough of despond all winter, and we’re bad about the phones even at the best of times. Will make prompt amends. XXX
Welcome back, Missy! You were missy-ed…
Your river of coffee story is a familiar reminder of one of life’s many oddities: How is it that 4 ounces of liquid barely scratches the surface when it comes to refreshment, yet when spilled on a bare floor covers 42 square feet or soaks a 20 foot area of carpet? These are the questions that plague mankind …
A girl likes to be missed — or, in this case, missy-ed. I missed me, too.
And, yes — it’s a puzzlement. I think there is a small household god whose job and joy it is to turn a cup in the cup into a quart on the floor.