Let it be simple.
Learning from a stone
Hello lovely noticers! I hope this July newsletter finds you well and with a moment to pause and read and reflect. I know there are lots of places you could put your attention. I don’t take it lightly—indeed, I appreciate it immensely—that you subscribe to Noticing Matters and take time to read and consider what I bring forth to share. It is an honor and pleasure to connect with you in this way.
I have other bits of news to share, too, but I’m putting them all below the post so you can get to the delightful learning from a stone. I hope you find it heart-opening.
You see a stone on the ground. You pause, bend down, and pick it up. You look at it, feel it in your hand. You put it in your pocket. Later you take it out to show to a friend. You talk about smooth, patterns, cracks, and shimmer. You wonder about where, how, and what else. You continue with your day, slide your hand into your pocket to feel the stone each time you remember. Later, you remove the stone, hold it in your palm, feel its weight, wonder why this stone, and place it on a shelf near where you will soon dream.
The simplicity of this thread of moments throughout a day. The ease. The ordinary. Effortless. Defenseless. Connective. True.
Every moment in our day, every sensation of feeling in our body, every idea we hear or think, every interaction with another being, everything—is a small stone. And the ease with which we allow ourselves to be with a stone is the ease with which it is possible for us to be with everything. Effortless. Defenseless. Connective. True.
Let’s look closely at the approach:
Notice. Allow. Describe. Reflect.
We notice. We bring our attention to what is here. We see a stone on the ground. We see a tear on the face of a child. We hear a bird caw-caw. We hear someone express an idea. We read a headline. We feel a tightness in our chest. We feel a prickly heat in our stomach. We have an itch on our arm. We hear the roar of engines in the distance. We look at our calendar. We hear other beings around us ask for what they want.
We allow. We let what we notice be what it is. We don’t wish the stone to be something else. We don’t jump into stories, interpretations, or explanations of how and why. We let the tear be a tear. We listen to the bird and to the idea that is not our own. We see and hear many words. We let the sensations in our body be without naming them or listing reasons. We let everything be what it is. We need not defend ourselves.
We describe. We tell and name, with no story or fixed meaning. We shift. We play. We revise. We invite others to share what they see so we may see more, different. We listen. We acknowledge the tear on the face we love, see its roundness, look into the eyes still wet. We let ourselves feel the layers of heat, tight, heavy, knot when we hear an idea not our own, an idea that feels like hurt. We feel, see, dance, shake, cry, scream, listen to all the ways the body knows to be with something, how it knows to describe outside of words. We stay with things. We’re curious. We’re not scared of what other people see. We don’t close ourselves off or build and label walls. There’s play and ease in the opposites, in the shifts of seeing that come from expanded description of what is there. This is the stuff of ocean and sky.
We reflect. We soften and breathe and wonder and drift. With a stone. With everything. We let ourselves find what we need from what we notice, allow, and describe. We know the energy that is ours. We see the pathways of interpretation and meanings that are not ours to follow. We don’t react or spin from a thought or feeling because we listen and learn from each thought or feeling as if it is a small stone. We know who we are in each moment and interaction, and we let others be who they are. The reflective meanings that follow from attention to notice-allow-describe let us speak, act, and share from a place of authentic alignment—free, whole, beautiful.
We know what to do when we see a stone, something ordinary, small, not a “problem,” nothing that perks up any habits of defense. We don’t get hooked and spun into stories of separation with a stone. We know who we are. We let ourselves play, wonder, remember, dream. We delight in curiosity and our revising to see anew. There’s no risk of non-belonging with a stone. And a stone lets us see that this is what we want. To belong. To love and be loved.
We can learn a lot from noticing how we notice a stone. We can choose to bring this noticing to everything. And it is this simple.
love+light, Melissa
If you’d like to read other essays I’ve written related to this topic:
If you’d like to learn playful ways to bring more depth of noticing to your daily life, a great way to start is to read How to Notice and try out the twenty moments of practice in the book.
Learn more about what grows from a practice of noticing here.
I’m teaching a couple online classes this summer for the Western PA Writing Project. They are free for participants. It’s not too late to register. You may attend all sessions in a series or a single session. Click on either image below to learn more and register.
If you appreciate my work and would like to read smaller morsels for pause, delight, and wonder each week (I usually share musings of between 300-600 words), please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Noticing Matters. The support of paid subscribers allows me to share and grow in new ways. Deepest gratitude.
And one more offering for those of you who live in Pittsburgh and love libraries! I’m leading three more sessions for Carnegie of Homestead, two for caregivers alongside their child/ren, birth-age 5 and one session for children ages 5-12. Click on either image below to learn more and register.
To learn more about me and my work: www.melissaabutler.com