GOING THROUGH THE
MOTIONS OF LIVING:
Drifting Through Life
Where am I when I am not conscious?
I sometimes notice, especially now
that I am meditating regularly, that there are many times when I am not present
consciously. I take a deep breath, focus
on my breathing, and watch my thoughts come and go. Suddenly I awaken to a sense of wonder—sometimes
frustration—as I realize time has passed and I have no idea what I’ve been
thinking about or doing in those moments.
I’m not aware of the silent peaceful place I hoped to find. I may feel heaviness, anxiety, or have a
smile on my face, but I have no sense of what was happening when I was gone.
Once when I was traveling from
Cheboygan to Farmington Hills to visit my family, I “woke up” and found my
surroundings familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time. I was confused until I saw the freeway sign
announcing Orchard Lake Road one mile. I
went from mild confusion to shock and awe.
My last memory was backing out of my driveway in Cordwood Point outside
of Cheboygan to begin my five-hour drive. Where was I while my physical body
was driving the car, stopping for gas and lunch, now soon to arrive at my
destination? Who was doing the
driving? No dents on the car, no ticket—just
receipts for gas and the food that I had no memory of eating. I’ve talked to others who experience similar
times. I believe most of us, if we were
more fully conscious more of the time, would realize we also have times when
our body is acting so-called normally while our mind is someplace else. I believe we often are not even aware this is
happening—until the embarrassing question of an acquaintance calls us back to the
now.
It definitely happens in
conversation. Have you ever experienced “awakening”
to hear the person you’ve been engaged in conversation with asking, “What do
you think?” You realize you have no idea
what has been said or even what the topic is, so you smile and say something
general—maybe “I agree” or “That’s sounds good” or just “uh huh”—and leave it
at that.
Or maybe, you’ve been the one
talking, sharing some exiting detail about your recent trip. Five or ten minutes later, your friend says, “Tell
me about your trip. Did you have a good
time?” Where were they when their body
was standing in front of you? And who
are we? Our minds or our bodies?
Or maybe you’ve been doing
something around the house--cleaning, building a bookcase—while your favorite
CD is playing background music. Suddenly
you hear the silence, but do not remember anything but the first song—not even
the whole song. Yet the entire CD has
played, your job is nearly finished, but were you actually conscious of doing
the work or hearing the music?
How much of our lives is spent
living consciously? How much of real
living do we miss, because we are so often unaware?
I remember friends and family
coming to visit me in my home on Lake Huron.
How often someone would sit at my table, staring out the window at the
birdfeeder, the large pine and oak trees, and Lake Huron just 60 feet away, and
comment, “Wow! I couldn’t live
here. I’d never get anything done. I’d just sit and stare out the window. It’s so beautiful!” That and similar comments would give me a
sharp nudge as I suddenly wondered, when
was the last time I really saw out
the window? When did I last hear the waves brush the shore? Or the
song of the warbler? When did I
consciously feel the warm sun kiss
my cheek or the wind in my hair? How
often was I—am I—going through the motions of living without truly living my life’s story?
I doubt I’ll ever know the answer
to my question. Like Rainer Maria Rilke,
I prefer to “Have patience with everything unresolved in (my) heart, and
try to love the questions themselves.” I also trust
that I will “someday live into the
answer.” To do that I must learn to
live more consciously, live more aware of life’s little moments as well as the
grand ones.
