The wind is howling outside, waves crashing against my little house, and I wonder if this whole drought-burned high desert will just blow away in the night as I sleep, house, junipers, bunchgrasses, coyote hunting the draw, ravens and all. But that is the future. For now it is me and the wind banging against the walls in the night. (A moment of awareness right now as I write.)
And yes, your two paragraphs come together even without your explanation in between. They link in a way that deepens the whole narrative. In the first you are observer of the world outside yourself, of the two men in two places linked by wearing stocking caps; in the second you are still observing, but you are observing yourself, as you observe. Awareness is a fascinating phenomenon, and hard to capture in words because words are symbols and using them pulls us away from the experience, even as we try to describe it.
Thank you for this Susan. It's beautiful. Your words (slippery things) helped me to see what I had written, to be more aware of it. The wind has continued here. My daughter and I worked outside Saturday and could not here each other speak because of its force. Even with all the battering and its insistent nature, I do love the wind.
Awareness has so many layers, doesn't it? I love the wind too, but three days of it was too much. I am glad for a calmer day today, even if it is cloudy, a rarity here, so we won't be able to see the partial eclipse.
I love it. And I think it would even "work" super well, without your explanation in italics, that is so related to this Substack genre/ community of readers
In both paragraphs, you reflect on how incapable you are of taking in all the abundance of life around us. Is that from believing we have a limitation that was not meant for us, or that we strive to go beyond what we are meant to experience?
Hi Mark! This is a great question. I think my inability to take in all of the abundance around me is just an inherent part of being human. I live in one body, with one nervous system, and one brain full of a particular set of experiences. All of this limits my capacity to take in the incredible abundance that spills out of everything all the time. I don’t think it comes from a belief, but rather the nature of my being. In my experience, my capacity to notice and be with this abundance has expanded. I do not think in doing this I’ve tried to go beyond what I’m meant to experience. I’m not sure what that point is. I guess I’m just trying to be with what I experience and accept what I can and cannot hold. Thank you again for asking. Let me know what you think.
Thanks for your response. First, I decided to use that question as just a starter, not presuming that it covered all the possibilities. As for me, I think now that it came subconsciously from a lot of using my variation of the Serenity Prayer: " Grant me the serenity to let go of what is not mine, the courage to hold what is mine, and the wisdom to know the difference. "
I understand. I like your version of that prayer. And yes to learning to see the difference. I tend to want to hold the abundance, absorb it all, and then realize I can’t. I can just brush up against it and enjoy it, then move on.
Your question invites me to consider the moment I am in; I haven’t been attuned much to the ordinariness of late. But now, I can be:
The fire has sparked on, but I don’t feel it is cold in the room. The propane pipes whiz a little, expanding. My husband is roaming from room to room. Finding snacks. Closing the back door. Flipping off a light switch. Now, he clears his throat and sits beside me, saying, “I guess we’ll stay home tomorrow. We can see it from here”—speaking of the eclipse and our vacillating between going to his great aunt’s, who lives in the so-called “path of totality,” and savoring a day at home. Sounds like the ordinary is in my future.
I love your version of ordinary, Christianna. It reminds me of how intimate ordinary can be, how vulnerable to put it into words. I'm grateful that you shared yours in this space.
The wind is howling outside, waves crashing against my little house, and I wonder if this whole drought-burned high desert will just blow away in the night as I sleep, house, junipers, bunchgrasses, coyote hunting the draw, ravens and all. But that is the future. For now it is me and the wind banging against the walls in the night. (A moment of awareness right now as I write.)
And yes, your two paragraphs come together even without your explanation in between. They link in a way that deepens the whole narrative. In the first you are observer of the world outside yourself, of the two men in two places linked by wearing stocking caps; in the second you are still observing, but you are observing yourself, as you observe. Awareness is a fascinating phenomenon, and hard to capture in words because words are symbols and using them pulls us away from the experience, even as we try to describe it.
Thank you for this Susan. It's beautiful. Your words (slippery things) helped me to see what I had written, to be more aware of it. The wind has continued here. My daughter and I worked outside Saturday and could not here each other speak because of its force. Even with all the battering and its insistent nature, I do love the wind.
Awareness has so many layers, doesn't it? I love the wind too, but three days of it was too much. I am glad for a calmer day today, even if it is cloudy, a rarity here, so we won't be able to see the partial eclipse.
It's calm here today, and I'm taking the opportunity to water the bushes (it's also still dry). Glad you're wind took a break.
I love it. And I think it would even "work" super well, without your explanation in italics, that is so related to this Substack genre/ community of readers
thank you Claudia. Yes, Substack does seem to be its own genre!
I agree!
In both paragraphs, you reflect on how incapable you are of taking in all the abundance of life around us. Is that from believing we have a limitation that was not meant for us, or that we strive to go beyond what we are meant to experience?
Hi Mark! This is a great question. I think my inability to take in all of the abundance around me is just an inherent part of being human. I live in one body, with one nervous system, and one brain full of a particular set of experiences. All of this limits my capacity to take in the incredible abundance that spills out of everything all the time. I don’t think it comes from a belief, but rather the nature of my being. In my experience, my capacity to notice and be with this abundance has expanded. I do not think in doing this I’ve tried to go beyond what I’m meant to experience. I’m not sure what that point is. I guess I’m just trying to be with what I experience and accept what I can and cannot hold. Thank you again for asking. Let me know what you think.
Thanks for your response. First, I decided to use that question as just a starter, not presuming that it covered all the possibilities. As for me, I think now that it came subconsciously from a lot of using my variation of the Serenity Prayer: " Grant me the serenity to let go of what is not mine, the courage to hold what is mine, and the wisdom to know the difference. "
I understand. I like your version of that prayer. And yes to learning to see the difference. I tend to want to hold the abundance, absorb it all, and then realize I can’t. I can just brush up against it and enjoy it, then move on.
Your question invites me to consider the moment I am in; I haven’t been attuned much to the ordinariness of late. But now, I can be:
The fire has sparked on, but I don’t feel it is cold in the room. The propane pipes whiz a little, expanding. My husband is roaming from room to room. Finding snacks. Closing the back door. Flipping off a light switch. Now, he clears his throat and sits beside me, saying, “I guess we’ll stay home tomorrow. We can see it from here”—speaking of the eclipse and our vacillating between going to his great aunt’s, who lives in the so-called “path of totality,” and savoring a day at home. Sounds like the ordinary is in my future.
I love your version of ordinary, Christianna. It reminds me of how intimate ordinary can be, how vulnerable to put it into words. I'm grateful that you shared yours in this space.