Imagination

It’s really so simple.    I cringe when I think of all the things I miss because they don’t fit my imagination, when they don’t fit the pattern I have in my expectations.   I don’t see when something, someone isn’t what I thought I would see.

I imagine that a cup is a cup.   When I pick it up, I hardly ever am aware I am touching it, that it has smoothness, that it is warm, that it has shape.   I hardly ever am aware of its color, its weight.   It is in my awareness, the same old cup that I remembered, and instead of really being aware of it, I rely on my imagination of what it might be.

I often miss the pleasure, the bliss of an open awareness of simple things.

I would do well to remember that I bring something to every encounter with a person or thing.   Reality is in my experience, and I shape every experience.  My world is truly mine, and it is what I make it.

My imagination can be quite powerful and entertaining.   It can bring me joy, excitement, fear and apprehension.   It can seem so real, and I can choose whether I want to live in it.   I can choose how much I rely on my imagination as I  move through my daily world.   I can slow down and notice that world more on its own terms and less on mine.