Monday: Reflection

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the intention to be present.

And how challenging being present actually is.

Getting in our heads is easy. Thinking about what happened, what might happen, what we need to do, what someone said, what we should have said. Our minds are very good at taking us somewhere other than where we actually are.

So how do we make the intention to be present?

Do we say it?

Do we try for it?

Do we just decide we’re going to do it?

I think being present is an active practice.

It takes discipline to notice when we’ve left the moment and gently bring ourselves back.

But it also takes a certain amount of relaxing.

There are moments when there is nothing to do.

Maybe you’re looking out at the water.

Maybe you’re standing outside for a minute.

Maybe something beautiful is right in front of you, and you want to take it in—but you can’t quite access it because your mind is busy somewhere else.

And sometimes that can be frustrating, too.

I want to be present.

Why can’t I just be here?

Why am I thinking about all of this when I’m trying to enjoy this moment?

And now we’ve added another layer of thinking to the experience.

We’re thinking about the fact that we’re thinking.

So I’ve been wondering if perhaps the intention isn’t always to get ourselves into the present moment.

Maybe the intention is to allow whatever is here to belong.

The chaos.

The emptiness.

The thoughts.

The stress.

The anxiety.

The distraction.

The beauty.

All of it.

What happens if I stop trying to push away what is keeping me from being present?

What happens if I let it all belong?

Maybe I can be present with my busy mind.

Maybe I can be present with my restlessness.

Maybe I can be present with the fact that I’m not able to access the beauty of this particular moment in the way I wanted to.

And perhaps, ironically, that creates the space for the present moment to come to me.

Rather than trying so hard to get there.

So today, that’s what I’m practicing.

Not forcing myself to be present.

Not getting upset when I notice that I’ve drifted away.

But allowing whatever is here to belong.

And then, when I notice I’m somewhere else, gently coming back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because maybe presence isn’t a place we arrive.

Maybe it’s the practice of returning—and learning to be with whatever we find when we get here.