The quality of my perception opens and narrows throughout the day. Which amazes me.
When I’m absorbed in the world of detail, that’s all I see. The day-to-day tasks of living have a way of pressing in, occupying my vision, making themselves appear urgent. They wave their arms for my attention, so I give it to them. I make lists to track them, schedule my day around them, and attend to their needs. When the flurry is over, I feel a sense of accomplishment.
All the details are useful. The groceries need to be bought, the prescriptions picked up, the yard weeded, the bills paid, the phone calls made, the appointments kept. But in the end, they are small things. My absorption is a constriction, a slimmed-down state of consciousness that exaggerates the details at the expense of greater goals.
The world of detail is the home court of my smaller self, my ego, the fearful part of me that craves constant reassurance and comfort. I appreciate what he does. He serves me well in organizing the details, but he thinks he runs the whole show when, really, he is the stage manager. Inside this theater, my range of perception is limited to its closed dimensions. There is a larger world outside the theater that carries an expanded perception.
At random, a small moment can intrude on my absorption and balloon my awareness – a familiar song, a line on the page of a book, a word of grace in casual conversation, a crow in the street, the play of light shafting through the trees – any of these can rouse me from the small details and tumble me into a different state, an open sky where a new perception overlays the first. In one sense, nothing changes. The furniture, the sunlight, the things I have to do are all still here. But they are also different – imbued, weighted, filled out in their substance, seated in a larger ground. It’s as if a slight updraft has ruffled a curtain I didn’t know was there, revealing another aspect of the field.
This larger world doesn’t come seeking me, waving its arms. It’s too patient for that. It sits in silence and waits for me to notice, to take a breath, to calm some tiny parcel in the backlot of my mind, before it slips in. That’s what small moments are for. They are everywhere, beckoning, relentless, like water ready to enter when a crack appears, inviting me to wake up. I miss most of them. Thank God for their perseverance.
What if I could hold both the small and larger worlds together in my awareness? Can this be done? I’m led to believe by the examples of saints and mystics that it is possible. I’m hopeful that each time I allow the small moments to take me, I brush against the curtain, wearing its fabric thinner, creating openings big enough to step through. Perhaps with time, I won’t see these shifts as peak experiences. They’ll just be how I see.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash