noticing our noticing

a simple practice with potentially profound implications

Have you noticed that we are always noticing?

As an organism, our systems rely on monitoring for, registering, interpreting, and responding to mind-boggling amounts of never-ending streams of information. Our living fundamentally depends upon this process. Incredibly, we have an amazing array of ways our body and mind use to monitor the current state of our circumstances, both internally and externally.

Will you take a few moments right now to reflect on what you are noticing and how? What comes forward in your awareness? How does noticing your noticing affect your experiences?

For me, as I pose this question to myself in the moment of this writing, I notice many things. I notice a strong internal sensation in the front portion of my lower belly that extends through my upper back and around the right side of my neck and up to the base of my skull. The sensations are rich and full – like a dynamic symphony that register as layers of temperature, pressure, and movement.

The movement shows up as a pleasant vibration accompanied with a resonant pulsation repeatedly traversing those places in my body I described above through what feels like a wide silken scarf shaped in an unbroken curving arc. I notice an affirming sense of warmth. I notice a slight holding within my muscles that introduces a familiar sense of pressure – pressure with intent and directionality. This pressure dances with and affects the pulsations.

I notice contrasting patterns of light and shadow in my office – with a bright area on the closet door to my left illuminated by the sun streaming through one of the high windows in front of me. I notice the color and textures of the computer monitors, the desk, the walls, the plants, the curtains. I notice the brightly lit green of the grass and tree just outside my window. I notice the clicking of the keys on my keyboard and the calls of a solo American Robin.

I notice a gentle cool breeze flowing through the screen of my open window – caressing the side of my face and the back side of my right hand. I notice a lingering aftertaste of green tea. I notice a faint aroma of earth. I notice smoothness of the keyboard keys under my moving fingertips.

I notice my fingers moving on their own to bring these words to the screen. I notice no one seems to be giving these fingers instructions on how to find the keys. I notice wondering how this is happening. I notice pressure in the soles of my feet assuring me that my feet are resting on the floor. I notice a sense of balanced uprightness in my torso as I type. I notice the subtle movement and accompanying sensations of breathing. I notice no one is giving instructions on how to breathe. I notice a slight pang of hunger, followed with a little more saliva flowing into the lower portion of my mouth and onto my tongue.

I notice along with each noticing, a rippling of emotional responses that remind me of the rings that appear briefly on the surface of a lake when you skip a smooth stone across it. I notice the emotions seem to be affecting each other, bouncing and echoing off each other within and through my body and mind. I notice my body’s shape and gestures shift subtly with the emerging emotions – like a gentle upturn of the right side of my mouth as if to smile. I notice flickers of increased contractions in various places seemingly to brace against what feels difficult, scary, or unwelcome.

I notice an externally silent, and internally noisy, running commentary. I notice that the words I hear in my mind far outnumber the ones that make it to this screen. The utterances in the spirited internal dialog seem to be originating from multiple somethings within me. I recognize each of the somethings as familiar aspects of me – none of them complete. They often have differing opinions and reactions to all the other noticings. I notice they never ask permission to voice their opinions and demands.

I notice a wondering about all that must be happening in and immediately around me that is going unnoticed by me.

I notice that so much more has appeared, stayed for a while, and disappeared than I can possibly reflect in this writing. The experiences and my reactions to them occur so much faster than my ability to describe and record them.

I notice a curiosity about my noticers. Who within me is noticing? How? Why? What are the implications of their noticing?

More phenomena, more reactions to the phenomena, more noticing.

I notice a sense of pervasive stillness from which all this activity emerges, abides, and returns. I notice recognizing this stillness – like an old and beloved friend – and feeling happy to feel held in its warmth and tenderness.