Enough

I was making the bed, smoothing the duvet across the bottom, and suddenly found every ounce of attention flowing freely into the task. Almost a kind of abandonment, like a swan dive off a high dive, as I disappeared into the ordinary bed-making moment.

Attention streams into the world through small tasks.

My husband Greg today read to me out loud an article by Thomas Keating about a disabled child named Sarah. (Here's the link to the article if you're interested:
http://www.contemplativeoutreach.org/site/PageServer?pagename=articles_newsletters)
Greg and I read aloud to each other often, kind of like a modern day version of telling stories around the tribal campfire. I had met Sarah back in 2002 at a retreat. The article talks about living one breath at a time. I used to get very bored paying attention to my breath, and I still find it boring sometimes. Yet other times when I tune into the flow of air in and out of the lungs, a keen sense of being alive arises. Brain clutter gradually disperses. The fact of being alive turns out to be the most stunning fact of all. A bottomless well of wonder arises at the very fact of existing. No further entertainment needed, thank you.

Absolute attention to small ordinary moments- just breathing, or engaging in a routine task- makes a kind of chute for consciousness to slide down into the world. What difference does this make? I don't know. No measurable difference, anyway. But I have this crazy notion that the universe tilts on its axis by an invisible fulcrum when attention is unified with present reality.

We're taught that in order to make a difference, to be somebody, we need to stand out in some dramatic way- be a hero and get rid of the bad guys, stuff like that. Sarah mostly just breathed. Did she make no difference, was she nobody?

Is there anybody who doesn't matter, is there anybody who is nobody? Many of us feel like we haven't made much difference, we haven't solved the great problems of the world. I certainly have felt that way many times and continue to feel that way at times.

But I'm also surprised sometimes in the most mundane moment, that in an anonymous, unspectacular way, full attention to present reality does matter, does make a difference. I don't know how exactly. But I'm heartened and emboldened to give myself wholeheartedly and without restraint to making that peanut butter and jelly sandwich (for the ten-thousandth time) and looking clearly into the eyes of my nine year old son Jack as I hand it to him. It is enough. It is more than enough.