First published on my blog on January 25, 2021. Read the post here →
The bottom line: I get to experience that which I am present to, and not experience that which I am not present to, as I cannot be present to everything all at once.
I’m sitting in bed. It’s 8:24 am and I’ve just completed my regular Wim Hof breathing practice. Before that, I did a seven-minute pelvic exercise in my morning gown, standing in the kitchen awaiting the kettle coming to a boil. Just drank the by-now lukewarm cup of water, grabbing my iPad to do a bit of morning writing before getting up, for real.
Open PAGES, look at the screen.
Raising my head, I look out the two windows facing me as I sit, propped up by pillows in my bed, and it’s snowing. Big flakes.
Surprised, I immediately put fingers to keyboard and start to write, only to look up again three minutes later… no snow.Snow flakes have given way to raindrops. Huh
In an instant.
And then, not there.
If I hadn’t looked up.
I would have missed them, the snow flakes.
Makes me wonder.
How much do I miss?
And… kind of like the question if a tree that falls all by its own out in the forest actually makes a noise even with no one around to hear, I wonder if it actually matters? Do I miss out on things, if I do not know they exist? If I had missed out on seeing these snow flakes, not knowing that there was a brief interlude of heavy snowfall, just for a minute or two… would I really have missed out?
Doesn’t the missing-out-aspect require me to know what was, and know that I did not get to experience it?
Is knowledge a prerequisite to missing out on something or other?
It’s now 8:33 and as I raise my head (this is what I do when I look for inspiration, my head and eyes tend to veer towards upper left), guess what?
I cannot be present to everything all at once.
I cannot be present to everything, period.
And what I am not present to I cannot experience.
What I am present to, I experience. And the better I get at being present, the deeper those experiences impact me. It’s as if I am thrown a piece of string, with each experience, a piece of string that I can then follow, outwards, beyond. To more experiences, to a wider perspective.
Snow. Rain. Snow.
Must be around freezing for that to happen, or perhaps a few degrees above. But not more. And definitely not less.
Will it cause slippery streets and pavements? Will people hurt themselves on account of this?
Might it snow enough for kids to be able to start a snow ball fight, make a snowman or even go sledding?
Will I have to shovel snow when I leave the house later today, for a walk?
Might it turn colder, affecting the five pieces of maple logs D brought this weekend, logs we intend to inoculate with mushroom mycelium? Is winter finally coming? What will we do with the logs then, how to keep them from freezing?
Again. No snow flakes falling.
Part of a dance that might well continue if it wasn’t for the fact that I have a Zoom-meeting starting in fifteen minutes. I tear myself away from my musings, as I realize it’s high time to get out of bed to get ready.
What might I miss out on as a result?
And what might I experience?
To what am I present?