In the after math of an ecstatic explosion of a meditation session yesterday, I quickly penned a reflection in verse. It was this: that i can walk is an absolute miracle, my left leg unsure where we go, the right coming along for the ride, my belly bellies and my crotch crutches, my nose knows and my ears hear. my beard itches and my pinky wishes. that i can laugh is a mystery, sounds leaping free from, somewhere wordless. that i cry is absurdly beautiful, water finding its way down my face, exploring what it means to kiss a cheek so loveable and also backed by the soundtrack of laughter. don’t you see that none of this makes any sense? this living!

My short write-up seemed to have been the sweet seed of an earlier journal entry that I intended sharing here a few days ago— a reflection on the nature and wonder of appearances that show up in our lives moment by moment. Doesn’t it also feel you with sheer wonder to notice that we are? That anything is? It does not matter if what shows up for us are wrapped in good emotions or bad ones. That they exist is just utter wonder! You see, some of my day-to-day experiences take the shape of individual fragments that wear very ordinary disguises yet have the incredible opportunities for practice and the integration of that which is so darn obvious. And this obviousness is what I want to share today for practice. Okay, okay, here’s what I mean: just the other day what appeared was the strained relationship with a friend I had been in conversation with. I had stated my position on something they objected to. This event was followed by a political conversation with yet another friend who had very strong opinions about the lives of an oppressed population. The conversation being another appearance on this screen of consciousness left my chest slightly tense. In another instance I had to deal with an immigration update that very naturally created stress in this body. Afterward, there was another dull ache as I watched a business graph lean steadily downward. Ordinarily, these situations follow the natural path for how our experiences unfold— one issue to the next, one celebration, one sad news, a peaceful moment and then another upheaval. Each situation, I clearly see now, is a door, a tremor in stillness that is calling attention to where the idea of “I” tries to hold its ground. Like everything else, these have become thrilling springboards for my daily practice. And the practice is not for fixing anything, but in learning how to see.

What falls out of this seeing is a strange and total enjoyment of being. A freedom that cannot be fully articulated. When we stare deeply at what disturbs us without running, without defending the “thing” seems to melt. The edges blur. The story unravels. The metaphor to describe this is how if you were reading a novel and suddenly pulled out of the story you’re reading and start to see the words that you’re reading. For a moment it becomes clear that the story is made up and the words are just words arranged one after the other to create meaning. Now, of course, we do not deny the story we are reading as false. We only see that it’s created and made sense of through our perceptual filters. So also, all of experience. We are able to see how they are shaped by clearly looking at them. What remains is the same spacious awareness that was always there, quietly watching.

The prompt for the contemplative practice that I will share today is asking ‘What is this?’ as we look through each notable fragment of our experience. The way I see it here, to ask What is this? is not to analyze the sitaution theoretically. It is to wonder. It is to turn the light of awareness toward the experience itself rather than the story about it, gently moving away from the stories we are living in to the nature of experience itself. Don’t you see that we spend so much of our lives trying to fix or escape what arises. But each appearance, pleasant or painful, may in fact be an invitation to see through the veil, to awaken to wonder.

When someone criticizes us. When we feel lost. When joy bursts through unexpectedly. When our plans fall apart. The invitation here is to figure out What is this? What is this moment made of, before it is given a name? When we’re angry, we think we’re angry at something. When we’re afraid, we think we’re afraid of something. Could it be that if we paused and asked What is this? the shape of the emotion softens. We begin to sense the field in which all emotions appear. It’s like standing at the edge of a lake and suddenly realizing that the ripples, no matter how turbulent, are never separate from the water. So also, this prompt is not about labeling or getting a psychological or spiritual explanation. It’s about pure experience, unfiltered, noticed right before thought claims ownership. It also does not seek for the answer to the question “Why is this happening?” but “What is this presence, right now, that is aware of what’s happening?”

Maybe each event in our lives is not happening to us but as us. The breakup, the delay, the health scare, the laughter of a friend, the birth of a beautiful baby, the promotion at the job, the stubbed toe, all of it is the same light refracting through different forms. If we follow this thread far enough, it leads back to the source. We may find that our inquiry peels away the layers of identity, habit, and resistance until there is nothing left to stand apart from what is seen. And then the realization may dawn on us: there was never really anything to deal with, only something to see. And maybe that is what it means to see God.

Everything we meet is an opening. Every sensation, every thought, every encounter, a mirror showing us the face of what we truly are. And the key to seeing it is simple, almost childlike curiosity.

What is this?

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