It frightens me to suddenly look up and realize that several days have passed that I hardly noticed. For me it has been hours and hours of contiguous meetings and hospital vigils -- much of which is the natural consequence of my disinclination to say "no" -- but my investments and distractions are nothing special. Everybody, it seems, is busy. But especially after spending the evening hours around a hospital bedside with a family, waiting for and finally catching in our souls the final breath of a loved one, I know how precious is every day. I am loathe to experience them only as the hazy blur whizzing past -- remembered more than noticed. Like squandering a rich conversation by concentrating less on what the other is saying than what my next comment will be, I feel like I am squandering every meeting I attend by watching the clock for the signal to leave for my next.
And then this morning, after grumping out of bed and dripping out of the shower; after the usual routine of squirting, brushing, shaving and swallowing; after turning mechanically and almost uncomprehendingly the newspaper pages, I remembered one omitted step. Indeed, I realized, it is one that has been forgotten these last several days. Returning to my dresser, rummaging around through the detritus of various emptied pockets, I found the special bottle of cologne and gently, expectantly pressed the plunger...
...and inhaled. There is nothing, to be sure, that is supernatural about cologne. The bottle does nothing but contain and occasionally apply an atomized mist of fragrance. But that, this morning, was enough to invite me back to the place where attention can actually be paid -- first with the nose, and then with the eyes and ears and fingers and tongue. Even the breakfast cereal -- bland and ignominious flakes -- tasted somehow more flavorful, and the mist-covered lake, on the drive to work, seemed somehow more alive.
And I, somehow, am too. More alive. Smelling better, but also participating more fully in even this key-clicking moment. And this day's length of one meeting after another smells, from this vantage point, more fragrant.
And then this morning, after grumping out of bed and dripping out of the shower; after the usual routine of squirting, brushing, shaving and swallowing; after turning mechanically and almost uncomprehendingly the newspaper pages, I remembered one omitted step. Indeed, I realized, it is one that has been forgotten these last several days. Returning to my dresser, rummaging around through the detritus of various emptied pockets, I found the special bottle of cologne and gently, expectantly pressed the plunger...
...and inhaled. There is nothing, to be sure, that is supernatural about cologne. The bottle does nothing but contain and occasionally apply an atomized mist of fragrance. But that, this morning, was enough to invite me back to the place where attention can actually be paid -- first with the nose, and then with the eyes and ears and fingers and tongue. Even the breakfast cereal -- bland and ignominious flakes -- tasted somehow more flavorful, and the mist-covered lake, on the drive to work, seemed somehow more alive.
And I, somehow, am too. More alive. Smelling better, but also participating more fully in even this key-clicking moment. And this day's length of one meeting after another smells, from this vantage point, more fragrant.
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Mindfulness
So difficult to achieve in our distracted culture.
So many options ... too many obligations ... much time invested in the mundane and little attention devoted to the divine.
And yet...
The Divine is everywhere, and being attuned to it is at least a possibility. Mindful. Even amidst the details, the distractions, the interruptions, the daily-ness of life.
Are there ways we can all remind one another when we need to take another whiff?
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