The puffs of white floating amidst the tree tops, like in a scene from one of “The Lord of the Rings” films, caught my eye one morning last week. Caught mid-task, I stood there watching the clouds for minutes—slowly swirl with the inhales and exhales of the breathing trees. I was charmed.
Up on the fifth floor and with windows nearly as tall as the 10-foot walls of my studio apartment, it’s hard not to notice the weather outside. Especially as it relates to the ridge of forested hills, aptly named Forest Park that’s a couple of miles west as the crow flies and separates the city from the low farmland on the way to the coast.
A daily barometer for gaining perspective.
Some days the hills are completely visible, some days it’s as if the world doesn’t exist beyond my block.
Most days there are clouds. Though they’re different every day. As if the clouds were a mood ring for the state of the world on any given day.
That is if nature had moods. If people even had moods. If moods were such a thing, instead of something we made up to separate ourselves from our emotions.
From being present.
It’s not just the clouds that change every day. It’s me.
Of course, they do look different—sometimes strained and thin, sometimes billowy, sometimes the little puffs.
My favorite: giant whale-looking herds (though they’ve only swum by once or twice). These made me gasp at their majesty and beauty, unlike the dense, boring grey ones that are more common.
But whether I notice them, or simply see them, depends on me.
Like hearing, but not actually listening. I might stand there the entire time, but then be unable to repeat back someone’s words a few minutes later. Sound familiar?
Whereas that morning last week when I was stuck in place, watching the clouds—losing track of time yet aware, alert and observant, neutral and thoughtless. Just like Irish poet and priest John O’Donohue said: Experiencing “each day as a sacred gift, woven around the heart of wonder.”
This is presence.
It is intentional, not accidental.
And it’s not an on/off switch.
Just like the ever-drifting, ever-changing clouds, my presence is in constant flux.
Meditation, sleep, diet, exercise, the outdoors all contribute.
Not to create, but to unlock, this natural state of being.
A state that unfortunately feels elusive and effortful in today’s world.
Even though I’ve detoxed for four weeks now, I do not feel this presence every day. Nor every hour of the days when I do. But, I am present more often. And not just in the beautiful moments.
I am noticing wonder in the angry, the hurtful, the disappointing, the unfair, the confusing moments too. Not yet in the mundane moments though. Someday.
John O’Donohue’s “A Blessing for Presence” puts it best:
May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence this week.
Love,
Jules
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