A Village in Rheinland-Pfalz (Germany)
The intense dreams don't stop. The vibration of the watch on my wrist tears me from sleep, and only that ends them. But this time I carry part of the dream with me into waking life. I don't like what's there — not because it's something bad, but because I don't like the feeling it produces. Coming into the day is the only way to leave it behind and forget it.
The day was actually planned out — we wanted to drive to Trier — but that plan dissolves into thin air the moment I'm downstairs with her. Even in the moments before, as I get up and hear nothing from her, I sense that today will turn out differently than expected. She barely slept, she says, she's not going out today, she tells me from the dark living room, where she spent the night on the couch.
From one moment to the next, this leaves a gap in me that my mind immediately tries to fill. Should I go alone? Should I work on my project? Or keep watching the show? Go back to sleep? And so I'm thrown back on myself, with all this time ahead of me that needs filling. But every act of filling is, at bottom, just a distraction from the true meaning of life. But what is that meaning?
I go back upstairs and begin my daily routine: I make coffee, write, and read online until my mind can no longer take in the words and I feel a strong resistance to it. I go over to the future yoga room, push the mat up to the baseboard, get my two cushions, and set them against the wall. I sit down on the mat and stretch out my legs so my feet are in the sun, which shows up on the floor as a trapezoidal shape.
Through the open window a gentle breeze drifts in now and then, along with sounds of birds and people, a motorcycle in the distance. Slowly I let go, and within moments I feel free and happy. Countless tiny dust motes dance in front of me, the sun warms my feet, my thoughts wander. I interrupt them by reading a few lines of *The Creative Act*, which in turn brings up new thoughts.
And then I'm back in Chiang Mai, in that small temple in the middle of the noisy city. I sit on the hard wooden floor, my back against the wall, and I'm completely in the moment, completely with myself, just as I am now. It's one of the most intense and beautiful moments of our stay in the city — a city choked by the noise and exhaust of countless vehicles. But the noise from the surrounding streets is nothing more than a monster wrapped in cotton wool. Inside the temple, and inside me, there is silence.
In this moment, that experience comes alive again, and I understand that this is exactly the meaning of life: to be here, here in the moment. To listen to the world and let thoughts arise and unfold, but also let them drift away again. This being-in-the-moment is really all we truly have. It is what we are: consciousness in a living body. I'm happy to have had this experience.
The intense dreams don't stop. The vibration of the watch on my wrist tears me from sleep, and only that ends them. But this time I carry part of the dream with me into waking life. I don't like what's there — not because it's something bad, but because I don't like the feeling it produces. Coming into the day is the only way to leave it behind and forget it.
The day was actually planned out — we wanted to drive to Trier — but that plan dissolves into thin air the moment I'm downstairs with her. Even in the moments before, as I get up and hear nothing from her, I sense that today will turn out differently than expected. She barely slept, she says, she's not going out today, she tells me from the dark living room, where she spent the night on the couch.
From one moment to the next, this leaves a gap in me that my mind immediately tries to fill. Should I go alone? Should I work on my project? Or keep watching the show? Go back to sleep? And so I'm thrown back on myself, with all this time ahead of me that needs filling. But every act of filling is, at bottom, just a distraction from the true meaning of life. But what is that meaning?
I go back upstairs and begin my daily routine: I make coffee, write, and read online until my mind can no longer take in the words and I feel a strong resistance to it. I go over to the future yoga room, push the mat up to the baseboard, get my two cushions, and set them against the wall. I sit down on the mat and stretch out my legs so my feet are in the sun, which shows up on the floor as a trapezoidal shape.
Through the open window a gentle breeze drifts in now and then, along with sounds of birds and people, a motorcycle in the distance. Slowly I let go, and within moments I feel free and happy. Countless tiny dust motes dance in front of me, the sun warms my feet, my thoughts wander. I interrupt them by reading a few lines of *The Creative Act*, which in turn brings up new thoughts.
And then I'm back in Chiang Mai, in that small temple in the middle of the noisy city. I sit on the hard wooden floor, my back against the wall, and I'm completely in the moment, completely with myself, just as I am now. It's one of the most intense and beautiful moments of our stay in the city — a city choked by the noise and exhaust of countless vehicles. But the noise from the surrounding streets is nothing more than a monster wrapped in cotton wool. Inside the temple, and inside me, there is silence.
In this moment, that experience comes alive again, and I understand that this is exactly the meaning of life: to be here, here in the moment. To listen to the world and let thoughts arise and unfold, but also let them drift away again. This being-in-the-moment is really all we truly have. It is what we are: consciousness in a living body. I'm happy to have had this experience.