This practice began the way so many moments in life do: with the eyes open.

I’ve been paying closer attention to vision lately—not just what I’m looking at, but how I’m looking. Our vision shapes how we take in information, which shapes how we think, which shapes how we react. When my attention feels scattered or overwhelmed, it’s often because my field of awareness has collapsed down to a single problem, a single thought, a single irritation.

So we began this meditation by resting the eyes on one simple point in front of us. A wall. A picture. A patch of light. And then, without losing that focal point, we gently widened the view—allowing peripheral vision to come online.

This is the same skill we need in traffic when someone cuts us off. We can stay focused on the road and aware of the wider field. We don’t have to collapse into the moment or harden around it.

When the eyes closed, we carried that same principle inward.

The breath became our anchor. In and out. Rhythm. Pace. And then—space. Not just the movement of breathing, but the room the breath moves through. The space in the nose, the throat, behind the eyes, and the crown of the head. Breathing becomes less of a task and more of a relationship with the body.

At work, when deadlines stack up or emails keep arriving, this practice shows us another option: you can stay engaged without being clenched. You can focus without losing your sense of space.

As we stayed with the breath, thoughts naturally appeared. Planning thoughts. Old memories. Emotional reactions. Instead of trying to push them away, we practiced meeting them the same way we met the breath—with patience, curiosity, and compassion.

This is especially useful in relationships. When a familiar argument starts looping in your head, you don’t have to solve it right away. You can notice it. Feel how it shows up in the body. And remember: thoughts arise, change, and pass.

This is where impermanence reveals itself.

Every breath dissolves and recreates the moment. Every sensation shifts. Even tension, when met with space and attention, begins to change. In parenting, in caregiving, in moments of physical discomfort—this truth can soften our resistance. Nothing is frozen. Nothing stays the same.

As the practice widened, attention opened to the body as a whole. Sensations blurred at the edges. The body breathed itself. The system took care of itself.

Meditation isn’t about clearing anything out. It’s about becoming a better steward of what’s already here.

We closed by welcoming gratitude—not as something to manufacture, but as something to notice. Gratitude for breathing. For showing up. For the quiet effort it takes to care for yourself.

Eyes open or eyes closed, it turns out we’re always practicing. The same rules apply. And that’s the beauty of it.

💬 Let’s Reflect Together

* Where in your life do you notice your attention becoming narrow or rigid?

* What changes when you allow space around uncomfortable sensations?

* How do your thoughts behave when you meet them with curiosity instead of control?

* Where could impermanence offer relief rather than uncertainty?

* What does it feel like to care for yourself without trying to fix anything?

Share your reflections in the comments—I’d love to hear how impermance is alive in your practice.

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