Small Stone: Untitled

A splash of paint on the floor, half way between my meditation cushion and shrine. Paint spilled and smeared by some previous tenant, it looks like a spirit, a floor fairy, a gray alien bird.

As I meditate, my eyes lightly touch it, allowing it to be seen, to enter into my awareness, but not attaching to or focusing on it. Shamata meditation is done eyes open, with a soft gaze, giving the environment its place in experience, rather than denying it.

The instruction is that just like you can’t ask your eyes not to see, as it is what they do, their natural state of being, you can’t ask your mind not to think. However, you also don’t have to get carried away, hooked by thoughts, and just because they come and invite you to follow doesn’t mean you must. You notice, gently acknowledge them as they arise, peacefully abide, and let them go as they dissolve. They fly away like birds, float off like clouds in the sky, are no more real than this paint creature on my floor.