Rule 8 - Attend to the moment

10 Principles, Rule 8

We get exactly the lessons we need. Constantly. They are there to remind us of exactly what we are here to learn. We get better and better at dealing with the things we confront, but only if we are awake and aware and see them coming. To be alert is the hardest task in life. And also the most rewarding.

Attending to the moment is the path of "no-thought," in a sense. That concept may be a little misleading, as, of course, we seldom if ever are not thinking something. It is "no-thought" because the only moment we can actually live in or attend to is in the here and now, and you simply can't think about the present moment. Thought, evaluation, judgement, planning - all are about the past or the future, and are mental processes as opposed to reality.

For example, as I look across the room and see Dar sitting at her computer, busily checking e-mail, my seeing and naming Dar, and my identifying her activity does not create nor make real either Dar or her activity. It simply becomes the focus of my attention. My naming is actually me "remembering" Dar. (Note the word's construction - to re-member - to put back together that which is separate - in this case, Dar and my remembering Dar.) Thus the Buddhist expression, "The finger pointing to the moon is not the moon."

While we all give intellectual ascent to the understanding

• that now is all that there is
• that life is nothing more than an endless stream of "nows"
• that there actually is no past nor future -

when we're in our heads and in the drama, it sure seems real. We hurt, as we remember. We think ahead and we are fearful. The sensations, the feelings are real, and they are here and now experiences. Thus, the idea that "I felt the loss all over again" is inaccurate. The feeling of loss in the here and now is not the same feeling as I experienced during the actual loss. As we learn from the Native American community, "You never step into the same river."

In other words, say I think of someone who died and I begin to feel grief. I am not grieving their death "back then." My grief is not the result of the death, back then. My grief is part of my momentary, present reality. I can do nothing anywhere but - and I am never anywhere but - in the here and now. In this sense, I have no past and I have no future.

More than a philosophical stance, this is the way of the world. Not only is there no past and no future, (they are imaginings) the constructs in our heads regarding either are not "true." They are simply constructs based upon what I choose to believe in this moment.

We have all had the experience of understanding some past situation in a certain way, and having another participant describe it differently. (Hell, historians are doing this all the time.) We have also had the experience of seeing something a certain way and changing our own mind as to our remembrance of, or our interpretation of, the situation.

Same with the future. We tend to go into our heads and try to micro-manage the future - to plan for all eventualities, and then discover, when we get there, that we had the wrong map and forgot the cream cheese. (I'm not sure where that came from, but I like it…) Nothing ever quite works out as we've imagined it, and mostly we're off by a mile.

The here and now is endless, having neither a beginning nor an end. We have both, of course, but here and now was and is and always will be. We step into life and wear life, or we step into our heads and play somewhere else while life passes by. The somewhere else in our heads is all about getting somewhere and making plans and accomplishing things. (A necessary pursuit, but not the only one.) The path of here and now is about drilling deeply into the moment, and holding the moment in complete awareness.

I was cleaning out a file, and came across the following quote from an article in "Fast Company Magazine," July 2000, page 310: "People midway through their lives see that the idea of progress has disappeared," says, Allums. "The best they can hope for, if they want to move ahead, is to go deeper into their soul's dark pool, where even footsteps disappear. After a certain point, there is no path to follow." (emphasis mine.)

Do you begin to see that the idea of "a path" is an artificial construct, designed by our heads to put us into linear time? When in fact, there are simply events, strung together like pearls on a string, each related to the other, but each also independent of the others? When we imagine, we construct connections, but they are tenuous at best.

I got a view of this process last week, driving home from my office in Port Elgin. It was 8:30 at night, and the road, a two-laner, was dark, with light traffic buzzing along at 95 km. I came over a little hill, and caught a glimpse of something ahead. One second later, I realized a deer was on the road, her butt on the line, her head in my lane. Just standing there, well, like a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Mine.

I had one of those moments of absolute presence. As soon as you go there, time begins to morph. You know this. If you are into a project, time flies. In dangerous situations, time stretches out, as seconds elongate. I became aware of the deer's eyes. She was full grown, and her head was even with mine. We looked into each other's eyes. I remember feeling relief - she didn't look scared. Still, she took one step in my direction. I hit the brakes a touch, and swerved right toward the shoulder. I saw her stop moving, and turn her head. I saw the side of my truck pass within inches of her body. I looked in my rear view mirror, while straightening out my truck's path. I saw the car behind avoid her too, and flash his lights to warn an approaching car. And then, the scene was gone, as I and my vehicle left that moent and entered the next. The whole event took 5 seconds, tops.

Now, that experience seemed 30 seconds or longer long. And each piece of that little drama was like a pearl, complete in itself. There was an, "Oh shit, deer in the road" moment, a "Now what?" moment, and a lot of instinctive (and lovely, I might add ;-) ) defensive driving. And, I repeat, time to look a deer in the eye, and take her measure. This was a total here and now experience.

What followed, a little down the road, was an explosion of thank-god's and what-if's. Part of my mind replayed the event, part of my mind and especially my heart, had a moment's shock, and my breathing increased. Another portion of my brain ran out an "in some other version of this story I died" scenario. Another part was thanking god for Dar and for another opportunity to see her. Another part redrew the story so that I hit the deer and ended up with it on my lap. This went on for 30 seconds, until I shook myself and had a real breath. I reminded myself that I was OK and had come through yet another adventure.

I am certainly aware that, as I was approaching the deer at 95 kph, had I begun to think, I would have hit the deer. No question. My salvation was completely contained in my non-thinking attending to the moment.

As it is with all of life.

Clarity is always available, if we will but open our eyes and ears, and slow down our mouths and brains. Entering the "soul's dark pool" is, for me, a stopping to float, to be and to see. It is suppressing my need to name, and to identify, and to judge. In that space, there is simple presence.

I remind myself that, as regards everything, "this too shall pass." Everything does, including us. Clinging on, engaging in a life of mental masturbation, really accomplishes nothing beyond a tangle and the propping up of our illusions. In this moment, it is as it is. I can choose to make contact or recoil unto a little ball. I can choose to blame, or I can choose to open. I can live my life telling myself stories, or I can open my eyes and see what's up.

Being open to the moment, it seems to me, is captured in Gandhi's last word, "Ram!" (god) as the bullet hit his chest. Ultimate presence, with each breath. And time, so much time, to see the glimmer of life in the deer's eyes.