THIS MORNING, I have no memories and no thoughts taking my attention, but if I start to mention one, I’ll realize that’s not entirely true. The basement sink is still full of water and it may start to stink if I don’t address it. I must direct my attention to the lower levels, but I’m upstairs, where the bird song’s clear and the air is sweet.
No memories, no thoughts worthy of my time, but I know that’s not entirely true, with a room full of archives stacked box on top of box, next to an unmade bed, two mattresses piled high on the old bed frame, a twin of my childhood dreams, literally. I used to share this room with my little sister, we’d hold hands across the gap between us, only letting go when one of us slipped into sleep.
Attention is intention, or is it the other way around?
I’ve been so magnetized by the manifestation maniacs, the way it all seems to reachable from here—the dream, like a stone to sit on while hiking through your life—but when I wade through all the neuroscience logic of it all (it’s not magic, it’s science!), I just get further lost in the language of longing.
Yes, I want the rooms in my house to change—to become more functional and pleasant to the eye—but I’m not willing to pay close attention to how I wish it would be, and that’s on me. I’m a huge fan of the imagination—believed for a time I was its greatest cheerleader—but the more I think about this, the less convinced I am that I was ever very good at “visualizing” my future self at all.
I never imagined myself as a bride, no wedding in my blood, no bouquet or band to mark the miracle of a bond.
I never imagined myself as a published writer, no book in my blood, no signed contract or announcement to mark the miracle of a manuscript melded into a held object.
I never imagined myself as a home owner, no house in my blood, no street address or green grass to mark the miracle of belonging to a place of my own.
So what do I say to all this manifestation talk—call it self-hypnosis, first of all—and let it be true that when we relax our minds and bodies, we signal to the spirit that she is safe to keep on with her flying through this lifetime with all the wonder and whimsy of a bird mid-flight.
That’s the trick with all of this—to relax enough to let the mystery come through the light, dust particles and all.
I keep reading in the mornings as if books will save me—and they do—but I also have things to say (even while the basement sink continues to rise with murky water and I must address it at some point!)—and I have given myself the permission to say them in writing or speech, whichever comes first, and I’ll only make my talking-head videos on the porch in one take, flaws and all.
I’m fifty and I’ve never much thrown myself into making mood boards or really letting myself see what there is to “see” as if that will make it so. A lot of these neuroscientists say that becoming conscious of what we want—really visualizing it—sends signals to the brain to really go after it and make it so, that’s the basic gist.
But in all my life so far, everything that has happened unfolded without the full force of my attention or intention. It was more like a nudge—just enough trust to keep walking the path as it appeared beneath my feet. And so it seems that everything beautiful and everything hard arrived with my consent, but not necessarily with my conscious permission.
Does that make sense?
No memories, no thoughts worthy of my time, but I know that’s not entirely true, with a room full of archives stacked box on top of box, next to an unmade bed, two mattresses piled high on the old bed frame, a twin of my childhood dreams, literally. I used to share this room with my little sister, we’d hold hands across the gap between us, only letting go when one of us slipped into sleep.
Attention is intention, or is it the other way around?
I’ve been so magnetized by the manifestation maniacs, the way it all seems to reachable from here—the dream, like a stone to sit on while hiking through your life—but when I wade through all the neuroscience logic of it all (it’s not magic, it’s science!), I just get further lost in the language of longing.
Yes, I want the rooms in my house to change—to become more functional and pleasant to the eye—but I’m not willing to pay close attention to how I wish it would be, and that’s on me. I’m a huge fan of the imagination—believed for a time I was its greatest cheerleader—but the more I think about this, the less convinced I am that I was ever very good at “visualizing” my future self at all.
I never imagined myself as a bride, no wedding in my blood, no bouquet or band to mark the miracle of a bond.
I never imagined myself as a published writer, no book in my blood, no signed contract or announcement to mark the miracle of a manuscript melded into a held object.
I never imagined myself as a home owner, no house in my blood, no street address or green grass to mark the miracle of belonging to a place of my own.
So what do I say to all this manifestation talk—call it self-hypnosis, first of all—and let it be true that when we relax our minds and bodies, we signal to the spirit that she is safe to keep on with her flying through this lifetime with all the wonder and whimsy of a bird mid-flight.
That’s the trick with all of this—to relax enough to let the mystery come through the light, dust particles and all.
I keep reading in the mornings as if books will save me—and they do—but I also have things to say (even while the basement sink continues to rise with murky water and I must address it at some point!)—and I have given myself the permission to say them in writing or speech, whichever comes first, and I’ll only make my talking-head videos on the porch in one take, flaws and all.
I’m fifty and I’ve never much thrown myself into making mood boards or really letting myself see what there is to “see” as if that will make it so. A lot of these neuroscientists say that becoming conscious of what we want—really visualizing it—sends signals to the brain to really go after it and make it so, that’s the basic gist.
But in all my life so far, everything that has happened unfolded without the full force of my attention or intention. It was more like a nudge—just enough trust to keep walking the path as it appeared beneath my feet. And so it seems that everything beautiful and everything hard arrived with my consent, but not necessarily with my conscious permission.
Does that make sense?
