The moment you let it go, completely and utterly in the out breath, the entire world flooded by everything that lies beneath what you had previously thought was you.
– David Whyte
Do you ever get the feeling that you’re forgetting something? I ask, even though I know the answer. I get this feeling most of all when things seem a little scattered and out of control. The more chaotic things become, the more I try to hold on. We all do this. We all try to hold on to everything. The greater the feeling of uncertainty, the more we want to know something for sure.
Last June my husband and I went camping on Denman Island. That weekend I read a really good book. I felt creative and inspired. I kept writing down quotes from the book in a note on my phone alongside my own ideas, things I wanted to write about, even share in this newsletter. On the last evening of our trip we decided to take a walk on the beach with our dog, Ruby. The tide was out and the beach was big and expansive and dotted with sun-bleached oyster shells.
At the time, Ruby was in the peak of her adolescent puppy phase, and she had a rebellious streak to match. In other words, she didn’t always come when she was called. Knowing this, we were walking her on a 30-foot long line, but at some point, feeling relaxed and at ease, my husband convinced me we should drop her line and give her a bit more freedom to roam. She loved that beach and how couldn’t she? This was a wide-open nautical world, rich in unusual smells, spotted with pools of salt water for splashing in.
At first, the line trailed just a few feet in front of us but within minutes, the gap began to widen. I pretended I was fine, but I could feel panic rising. This was not a small beach. It seemed to stretch on for miles. Calling out for her to stay close would only give her the idea that she shouldn’t… but I couldn’t help it. I called her name while trying to keep my voice calm. She started to pick up her pace. The gap between us and the end of the line kept getting wider. Soon she was sprinting. Soon we were sprinting.
Neither my husband nor I could get much traction running in the sand. For sure, neither of us could match her pace. Just when we would almost snatch the end of the line, she would take off again. The game was on. At some point my husband was knee deep in waves, trying to catch hold of her in the water, but then she was back on land and running fast. He didn’t have a hope, so I took off after her instead. I felt a pit in my stomach, wondering if she would round the corner of the beach up ahead, and I would lose sight of her.
At some point, as I was breathless but getting closer to her, I felt my phone fall out of my pocket. I felt it happen, but I couldn’t go back for it. I was almost there. I told myself I would get it after I caught up to her. I kept running. Eventually, finally, my hand closed on the end of her line. Feeling the tug of resistance against her harness, she stopped. She looked back at me as if she’d just remembered I existed. She trotted back to me, tail wagging, as if to say, she was only playing. What was I so worried about?
Then I remembered my phone. When I turned back to look for it, I knew immediately that it was gone. The beach seemed to stretch out impossibly in every direction. I had gone further than I thought. I could try to retrace my steps but I could never cover every inch of space or know exactly where I had been when it dropped. I could try to call it, but I would never hear it ring over the wind and the crashing waves. We searched for a while, pacing back and forth along the beach, but we never did find it. The tide was coming in. My husband kept trying to call it from his phone, but eventually it started going straight to voice mail. It was gone.
Back in the city, I went to the mall and bought a new phone. The woman who sold it to me laughed when I told her I’d lost the last one in the ocean. She had had a dog too. She told me it had just passed away. She showed me a picture, her own phone’s background, and we both tried not to tear up. She tried to back up my phone from the cloud. The last automatic back up had been a day or two before I lost it. Most things were recovered but my notes from the weekend, the quotes from the book I read, the ideas I had for what to write about next, photos of the beach, all of that was gone.
When I got home, I tried to flip back through the book I’d been reading. What words had resonated? On what pages had I found thoughts I wanted to hold onto? What was the connection I had made to my own life? Combing through the book, and combing through my mind, was like combing the beach for my lost phone. Had the quote, ironically, been something about letting go? What had I thought about it? I didn’t know. Every time I felt myself getting close, the gap between me and the idea would widen.
I had to accept it. Try as we might to hold on, there are some things that exist only for an instant, few things we can actually control, nothing that will be ours forever. Maybe those ideas never really belonged to me, I thought. Maybe we’re not supposed to be able to tuck these things away, to make them ours, as if part of a collection of seashells picked up on the beach. If I couldn’t know the thing now, had I ever known the thing at all? I had to suppose that I had. But what if my involvement was only for that moment, an unspoken conversation moved forward one iota, then dropped back into the surf, the tide lapping it up, swallowing it whole. It was gone. Would it come back again when it was ready for me? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to, but I had to let it go.
home practice
How is your practice going? Have you been able to set aside some time, every day? It’s okay if you haven’t. I find there are some habits I pick up right away, while there are others I’ll revisit again and again, over months, or even years, before they become something more solid and second nature.
Maybe by now you’ve found some practices that you prefer more than others. Maybe you’ve settled into a regular rotation of different practices or taken up a meditation app that supports your daily ritual. Maybe you’ve been experimenting with self-guided practice or with sprinkling in short practices in moments of transition. All of this is intended to be experiential and your experience your own.
At the beginning of this series, we explored an open awareness practice (observing the way attention moves from one object to another), followed by a focused awareness practice in week three (continually bringing attention back to one object, the breath). Interestingly, open awareness practices seem to support divergent thinking (creative, idea generation), while focused awareness practices seem to support convergent thinking (linking concepts together, taking action). To generate ideas, and also bring them to life, we need both of these approaches to thinking.
This week’s guided practice combines the two, beginning with focused awareness and ending with open awareness. In your self-directed practice, you can also try doing this in reverse, beginning with open awareness and shifting to focused awareness. If you do, let me know what you notice.
guided practice
guidance for a self-directed practice
Sit or lie comfortably. Bring your attention to the breath.
Observe the breath, noticing its pace, quality, temperature and associated sensations.
Stay like this for a while. When you notice your mind has wandered away from the breath, bring it back.
Part way through your practice, and when you feel ready, let go of the breath and allow your attention to expand.
Notice sounds, thoughts, feelings and sensations. Let your attention be broad. Observe what you observe without directing your attention. Notice where attention wants to go.
Stay like this for a while. When you notice yourself caught up in a particular thought or sensation, gently let it go and come back to your broader awareness.
When you are ready, close your practice.
Note that if you find it uncomfortable to focus on the breath for extended periods, you might consider choosing another object of focus, like a phrase that you can repeat to yourself, or the sensations in the hands and feet.
for more
I love the book Lost & Found by Kathryn Shulz. I’ve recommended it in this newsletter before, but I’m recommending it again for new readers. I love the way she explores loss and finding and the way it can feel to be doing both at once.
For more on convergent thinking, divergent thinking, the creative process and the role meditation can play in it, this episode from Huberman Lab is a must.
As always, reach out to me any time at taryn.greig@gmail.com or on Instagram @taryngreig. I’ll always reply.
Here’s to being here now.
In this 10-week series, I’ll be sharing weekly guidance on cultivating your own meditation practice. Weekly guides will be delivered to your inbox on Sunday morning and will include a reflection on one of the nine attitudes of mindfulness, practical guidance and a recorded practice that you may choose to use throughout the week. Feel free to share this resource with anyone who you think might appreciate it.