watching on a tuesday morning

Dear living,

I’m feeling a bit foggy this morning – mentally and physically. Ambivalent. Melancholy. Playful. Anxious. Disengaged. Curious. Hopeful. Appreciative. Annoyed. Cranky. At ease. Tired. Puzzled. Discouraged. Disappointed.

I, or perhaps more precisely my current gaggle, feel all of these at this moment. And the feelings are changing faster than I can write them down. Questions – searching to understand my experiences of self and you.

And now an unexpected sneezing fit. Eyes watering, multiple forceful sneezes in quick succession, drainage in the back of my throat. What brought that on? I’ve been sitting in the same spot writing in my living room for a while now, and this histamine reaction appeared to come out of nowhere.

And somehow, that sneezing fit seems very relevant to the relentless questions. Perhaps all my experiences are of the same ilk. I simply find myself having them. All my experiences emerge unprompted – ungoverned. The experiencers also emerge – unprompted – ungoverned.

Yes! That feels right and true. There is noticing, there are noticers, and there is a continual parade of sensations, thoughts, emotions, physical reactions, and interpretations. The ongoing parade always seems to include at least one meaning maker. One or more aspects of me always seem to be crafting and silently verbalizing a story to try and have whatever else is happening make sense. As far as I can tell, the story-making is arising just as mysteriously as the recent bout of sneezing. I didn’t ask for it – I’m not sure why it’s happening – and I’m not controlling the inner narrative that emerges.

And that last set of sentences doesn’t sit quite right with me. My use of the word I to describe what’s happening feels inadequate. Who or what is this I?

I feel a constriction in my chest as I entertain this last question. My breathing becomes restricted. I feel a painful burning sensation in my chest that reminds me of when I experienced my first heart attack. An aspect of me starts to panic a bit that I might be having one now. And something in me hopes that I am. And something in me chuckles knowingly at this familiar story line. It’s like watching reruns of an old sitcom TV series that I vaguely remember but that have slightly different scenes each time the episode is replayed.

Now the painful ache in my chest, with a lot of variety and textural changes emerging through the range of movement with each inhale and exhale, claims my attentional spotlight. The other happenings within my gaggle seem to continue, but more like muted murmurings in the shadows. Pain on center stage, joined by a supporting cast of fear and delight and disappointment and bemusement. And of course, one trying to make sense of it all – one dutifully looking for opportunities to nudge the narrative toward an arc of redemption.

Constriction and undulating pain with each draw and release. By the way, who’s breathing? Each inhale emerges. Each exhale follows. Now something feels a need to take control of them – to make them better. To make them longer, smoother, more admirable. Something seems to have an ability to affect the shape of the waves of breathing, but the recurring rise and fall of the waves themselves seem completely beyond that something’s influence.

Now sensations of my heart beating and blood pulsing in my neck gradually enter my awareness – accompanying the uncomfortable pinch in my chest with each rise and fall of my rib cage. Now vivid visual images appear while my eyes are closed: a soothing scene of a river flowing calmly through a stately stand of trees in pleasant light, a violent orange eruption against a heavy black volcanic mountain, a tender embrace of an imaginary fragrant cool breeze traversing my cheeks.

Now an uncomfortable tickling constriction in the back of my throat emerges – clamping down on my breathing more as if to support the pinch in my chest. It seems intent on stopping me from giving voice to these experiences.

Something haughtily challenging the narrator to explain all of this. The narrator reluctantly acknowledging that it cannot – yet, in spite of the swirling eddies of potentially redeeming story fragments swirling in the mental room.

And the pinch. And the breaths. And the longing to understand who is noticing and why.

Something in me wants the pinch to stop – to go away. And the more intense the longing for it to stop becomes – the more prominent the pinch becomes.

What is this?

A pinch, a noticer, an interpreter, a narrator, one who critiques. Is there a pincher? It seems to the interpreter that someone must be applying the pinch, but the source of the pinch is not perceptible in this current episode. The pinch – the breaths – the heartbeats.

What is this? Why is it happening? Who is noticing?

I’m not sure, but I suddenly need a nap.

Unresolvedly yours,

Ken