The Essence of Presence: Reflections on Life's Moments
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Chapter 1: The Nature of Presence
When do you truly feel present? Is it during moments of reading, writing, or creating? What influences your sense of presence? A recent skiing adventure has led me to reflect on how this state of being impacts my writing process, and how it can also permeate the narrative itself. For example, employing the present tense in storytelling can alter the reader's sense of presence. Is the character absorbed in the moment, or are they preoccupied with the future or trapped in memories of the past?
What role does presence play in our consciousness and unique worldview? It's tempting to view presence simply, yet our individual experiences can vastly differ. The complexities of the past and future often shape our present in paradoxical ways.
I shared my thoughts on this with you, contemplating the concept of presence through various lenses.
Skiing: An Obsession
Skiing captivates me. While I don't engage in extreme sports or venture into perilous terrains, the slopes in the Alps, Appalachians, or Dolomites offer mystical views that transform my mental landscape. In these surreal environments, I feel detached from the mundane, almost as if I’m in another world. I dream of these slopes even in the sweltering summer heat, imagining the exhilarating descents through nature's most beautiful creations.
Standing at the top of a steep trail, with skis hovering over the edge, it appears to be an outright drop until you approach it closely. Once you cross that threshold, retreat is no longer an option. Many opt to stay back, gazing nervously before retreating to safety.
Yet, I find myself among a small group, ready to embrace the challenge. We've shared similar experiences before, confident in our abilities. We anticipate the rush, entering a focused mental state as if guided by an internal rhythm that blends spontaneity with purpose.
We acknowledge one another, allowing for turns as we mentally map out the terrain. This sense of camaraderie helps us navigate the slopes, even without a detailed plan. It's akin to immersing oneself in a lively social gathering, absorbing the atmosphere around us.
As the moment arrives to descend, I break away from the group and fully commit. This isn't about reckless speed but rather a controlled, exhilarating experience where everything else fades away. It's just me, my body, and the quick, instinctual decisions I make as I weave down the mountain, enjoying the thrill and the power of my movements.
I don’t stop to admire the views that others cherish. Instead, I become part of the landscape, like the mountain goats we spot from the gondola, unfazed by past or future concerns.
Afterward, I inhale deeply, feeling the crisp mountain air fill my lungs. I finally take a moment to gaze out at the vast Alps, a reminder of our insignificance in the universe. Yet, the grandeur of these mountains fills my mind, encapsulating the cosmos in a single moment.
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Chapter 2: Presence in Motherhood
"Maybe this is the best time in your life."
Time seems to accelerate, though I know it's a trick of perception. Is it due to aging, or perhaps the profound changes that come with parenthood? It feels as if I'm surrendering time—not to my child, but to the essence of life itself. Watching him grow is like observing a time-lapse of a daffodil unfurling.
He seems blissfully unaware of this passage of time. I've discovered that playing with my son can be a form of meditation. At times, the demands of motherhood feel at odds with everything else. While enjoyable, those moments often felt like a distraction unless I multitasked.
Now, when he wants to play, I become acutely aware of the fleeting nature of those moments. I immerse myself completely, setting aside my phone and racing thoughts, focusing solely on our shared adventure in an imaginary restaurant or Playmobil castle.
We cherish these moments, but they often vanish without a trace, undocumented and easily forgotten. Nonetheless, perhaps something meaningful is created—love or energy of experience that lingers. I strive to deepen our presence in those moments, encouraging him to appreciate our time together. "Isn't this fun? Aren't we having a wonderful time?" His response often is a playful, "Mummy, keep playing!"
I occasionally snap a photograph to capture the memory for later reflection. Yet, when the time comes to transition to another activity, I feel a twinge of anxiety. The moment has passed, and the realization hits: we may not remember the specifics of what we just did.
Does it still hold significance? If time erases these moments from existence, do they still matter?
5:47 a.m., I sit at my writing desk by a window that once framed an old tree, now gone.
In this stillness, the subtle movements of life—the flight of a bird, the rhythm of my heartbeat—become pronounced.
The act of writing mirrors this as well. The grand narrative gives way to intricate details, each carrying its own story.
When I quiet my mind, the significant thoughts—love, fear—rise to the surface, and I release them. Rumination isn't stillness; it's a swirling mass confined within my mind, yearning to dissolve into the finer details. I seek the small tensions, the memories of beauty, the existential questions that seem immense yet become manageable.
I feel the ink of my pen flowing across the paper, capturing thoughts that pour forth unbidden. The solid surface beneath my hand grounds me as words align into coherent patterns. A connection forms between my mind and the act of writing, bridging the gap between the void before me and the world beyond my gaze.
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