Passing Circumstances, Passing Conditions - All Passersby

Find a comfortable position, allowing your body to settle completely. Close your eyes, or soften your gaze downward.

Take a deep breath in... and let it go.

You’re sitting on a wide wooden porch in the Deep South. The boards beneath you are weathered smooth by decades of sun and rain, painted a soft gray that’s worn through in places to reveal the grain underneath. You’re settled into an old rocking chair: the kind that creaks just so when you move, a sound as familiar as your own heartbeat. The woven seat cradles you perfectly, and as you begin to rock, gently...slowly...

The rhythm becomes like breathing itself.

In your hand, you hold a mason jar filled with fresh lemonade. You can feel the cool condensation against your palm, little droplets sliding down the glass. The ice cubes shift and clink softly. You’ve made this lemonade from life’s lemons: some sweet, some bitter, all squeezed and stirred together into something refreshing, something that quenches thirst on a warm afternoon.

The air is thick and soft, carrying the scent of magnolia blossoms. Just beyond the porch steps, a magnificent magnolia tree spreads its dark, glossy leaves, and tucked among them are those creamy white flowers: large as dinner plates, perfuming everything. Beside it stands an old beech tree, its smooth gray bark like elephant skin, branches reaching wide to offer dappled shade. And from both trees, Spanish moss hangs in long, silvery curtains, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze that finds its way through.

The porch extends before you like a stage, and here at the threshold of your awareness, the world moves at its own gentle pace.

As you rock, sipping your lemonade occasionally, you begin to notice...here comes someone down the sidewalk. The mail carrier, perhaps, with that familiar canvas bag slung over one shoulder. You raise your glass slightly in greeting. A smile finds your face naturally, easily. “Afternoon,” you might say, or just nod. Jennifer, the mail carrier waves back, smiles warmly too, maybe exchanges a word or two about the weather. And then...she continues on her route. You watch her go, take another sip of your lemonade, and return to your rocking.

The chair creaks. Rock...and rock...and rock.

Here comes a neighbor walking their dog: an excitable golden retriever straining at the leash. You lift your glass again, smile broadly. “Beautiful day,” you call out. The neighbor agrees, laughs about the dog’s endless energy. You chat for a moment, maybe two. The dog sniffs the bottom porch step, right at your yard edge. That dog sure seems to know about your raccoon friends! And then the pair moves along, the dog pulling the neighbor toward the next interesting smell. You watch them round the corner and disappear.

Rock...and rock...and rock. Another sip of tart lemonade.

Now you begin to understand: everything that passes is just that: passing. Each person, each dog, each moment...they come into view, you greet them, acknowledge them, maybe share a brief word, and then they move on. You don’t chase after the mail carrier. You don’t try to hold the neighbor in conversation for hours. You don’t judge the person across the street, the one you’ve had your differences with: the frenemy who’s out watering their garden. You simply raise your glass, offer a small smile or nod, and let them be. They wave back, or they don’t, and either way...they pass on by.

This is what you practice now. You don’t close yourself in and shut out the world, nor do you venture out into the world. Rather, you make yourself available to the passing world while remaining relaxed. Whatever arises, outside you or within you, is a passerby on your porch-front street.

A thought appears: a worry about tomorrow. Here it comes, walking up the sidewalk of your mind. You notice it. You raise your mason jar of lemonade. “Hello, worry,” you might say gently. “I see you there.” You don’t invite it up into the shelter of your porch. You don’t serve it a glass of your lemonade. You simply acknowledge it: a nod, a small smile...and watch it continue on its way. It doesn’t have to stay. It’s just passing through.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

A memory surfaces: something that happened last week, something someone said that stung. Here it comes down the street. You see it clearly. You raise your glass. “Hello, old hurt. There you are again.” You can feel it, maybe a tightness in your chest, maybe a warmth in your face, but you don’t grip it. You don’t chase it down the street demanding explanations. You sit in your rocking chair, you take a sip of sweet lemonade, and you watch it pass. It grows smaller in the distance.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

A moment of joy bubbles up: a beautiful memory, a hope, a little spark of delight. Here it comes, like a child running by, full of energy. Your smile is wide. “Well, hello there!” you might say warmly. You enjoy its presence. You lift your glass in celebration. You let yourself rock a little more enthusiastically. And still...you let it pass in its own time. You don’t cling to it, don’t demand it stay forever. You appreciate the visit, and you wave goodbye as it continues down the street, knowing that joy will come again, in another form, another time.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

Physical sensations arise: maybe a slight ache in your shoulder, maybe an itch, maybe hunger or thirst. Each one is a passerby. You notice: “Ah, there’s discomfort walking by.” You don’t make it an enemy. You don’t make it mean something terrible. You raise your glass, you acknowledge it: “I see you”: and you allow it to be what it is: temporary, moving, passing through your awareness like clouds across the Summer sky.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

You sit here on this porch, in this rocking chair, and you practice the ancient art of hospitality: not the kind that invites everything in to stay, but the kind that acknowledges, honors, and releases. The kind that says: “I see you. You’re welcome to pass through. I won’t clutch at you or push you away. I’ll just wave...smile...and return to my rocking.”

Even difficult visitors: anger, fear, jealousy, shame: you greet them too. You don’t pretend they’re not there. You don’t hide inside the house. You sit in your rocking chair, you hold your mason jar of lemonade made from life’s lemons, and you say, “Hello. I know you. You can keep walking.” And somehow, in the acknowledging, in the not-fighting, they lose some of their strength. They’re just...passing by.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

The Spanish moss sways. The magnolia releases another wave of perfume. The beech tree’s leaves rustle like whispered secrets.

And you understand: you are not the passersby. You are not the thoughts, the feelings, the sensations, the memories, the people, the circumstances. You are the one sitting on the porch. You are the awareness that watches, that greets, that allows. You are the steady rocking, the cool glass in your hand, the porch beneath you. Everything else? It’s all just passing through. Even those raccoons under the porch.

Some days the street is busy: filled with difficult thoughts and challenging emotions. Some days it’s quiet. But you remain: rocking, sipping, waving, smiling, letting each moment be what it is and then letting it go. Your presence and awareness relaxes while you remain present in the edges of your home. Under the porch eaves, everything visits and everything leaves.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

Take another deep breath now. Feel yourself in your rocking chair. Feel the weight of the mason jar. Feel the steadiness of the porch beneath you. You can return to this porch anytime you need to: anytime life feels overwhelming, anytime you’re gripping too tightly or pushing too hard. Just come back to the porch. Back to the rocking chair. Back to the simple practice of watching what passes, raising your glass, and letting it all move through.

Rock...and rock...and rock.

When you’re ready (no rush) you can begin to bring your awareness back to the room around you. Feel your body in the chair or cushion where you’re sitting.

Wiggle your fingers and toes gently.

And...when it feels right, you can open your eyes.

The porch is always there. The lemonade can always be made fresh. Lord knows the raccoon family doesn’t seem too keen to move out - I’m sure they’ll be there, too.

And you...you’re always welcome to sit, to rock, and to simply let life pass by with a wave and a smile.

Thank y’all.

Music Cue:

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