Since I think late February, I have been sitting outside every morning, for 30-45 minutes. Just sitting, outside. I have never done this before in my life. Me and morning and meditation and outside have never happened in the same sentence, certainly not in any sustained way. Except perhaps if I count walking to school when I was a child.
Three moments, all within the last few days:
One morning, while sitting with the intention to simply be present with a “bad” headache, an image flashes into awareness – not even an image, more of a... whiff, or an intimation, or a felt sense – of a hug and caressing of my aching head. I am moved to tears.
One morning, a praying mantis sits on the deck railing in front of me. I have never seen one before, up close like that.
One morning, the squirrels in two nearby trees emit harsh, alarm-like sounds. I open my eyes in time to see a hawk swooping low across our long, shared backyard and up onto one of the roofs.
Of course, I am always accompanied by my mind friend Guy, who seems not to require any rest. He’s up and actively commenting even before I am fully awake. It’s quite remarkable, the compulsion of the mind to free associate ceaselessly. Mostly it’s vaporous and wearisome; but occasionally gems surface. And occasionally he can be lured into quietude with tasks like counting how many different sorts of sounds we can hear.
How has it happened that I am 61 years old and am only now grokking that every morning is completely different? The inner landscape, the outer landscape... completely different, every morning. It's quite wondrous.