Inventory of Attention
Inventory of Attention - 1
Before I had even pushed back the blankets or shaken the lead out of my limbs, I knew about Lebanon, bulldozers in the West Bank, Zelensky’s call for more aid, and also about Moo Deng, a pygmy hippo whose name means bouncy pork. My mother’s mother’s mother woke early, bounced from bed to milk the cows and scatter feed for hens. I wake early, scatter attention, which means I wake tired and go to sleep, mind still bouncing between browser windows that break break break with news. We were not built for this. I do not know the cure— except maybe to leave the windows and find myself a door.
Inventory of Attention - 2
A topple of goldenrod. Lavender crushed between finger and thumb. Gray curtain reaching ground. Skin rises goosebumped to meet the rain. Legs stride under sycamore shield. I am still inside a song.
The Prompt
On the surface, the two poems I shared above seem to have little relation to one another. In truth, the experience of the first poem gave rise to the experience of the second.
I don’t usually begin scrolling on my phone when my alarm wakes me up, but yesterday morning, I was so tired it seemed impossible to get up, and I knew I had to do something or risk falling back asleep, so I clicked open the New York Times and slurped up bits of information, much of it horrifying, indigestible. I got up, made coffee, and realized quite quickly that my mind was scrolling through thoughts at breakneck speed. I scanned back in my memory. How many people, places, things, atrocities, hopes, to do list items, longings, and fears had already been given some scrap of my attention? The volume was staggering, and I hadn’t even gotten my kids up for school yet. I decided to create an inventory of my attention—to try to notice all the places it had gone for even a fraction of a breath and all the places that it would still go, however fleetingly.
The first poem reflects that experience. And the ending of the first poem—about finding myself a door—created an opening for my experience of the second poem. I stepped outside, literally. Instead of viewing the world through windows (whether browser windows or glass), I walked out into it. My thoughts slowed. My body woke. I felt myself expand. If you haven’t ever stood under a sycamore tree in the rain and let it swallow you in song, you really ought to try it.
Standing under a tree won’t save children in Lebanon or Gaza. But it might help you gather the scattered bits of your attention. It might help you come home to your own body and home to the body of earth. And it’s my belief that when we do this, we can show up with a little more wisdom, a little more compassion, and a little more attention to what connects and unites us.
Oh my goodness, I promised you a prompt, and instead I’m preaching! Today’s prompt is simply this: take an inventory of your own attention. Do this however you would like. Write it down. Speak it aloud. Or simply take time to turn it over in your mind, traveling back across your day to notice what you have attended to and how deeply.
When my attention is scattered, which it all too often is, it is shallow, like seeds sitting on the surface, baking in the sun. When my attention is intentional, the seeds nestle a little deeper down. Sometimes they sprout. Maybe they grow.
As you inventory your own attention, here are some questions you might consider.
What are the weirdest or most random seeming thoughts you recall having today? How do you think they came about?
Who in your life has the greatest influence on your attention?
Who not in your life has the greatest influence on your attention? (Mark Zuckerberg? Donald Trump? Moo Deng?)
Where/when does your attention feel the deepest? Where/when does it feel the most shallow? What’s the difference between these situations?
What would you like to attend to more often or more deeply? What would you like to attend to less?
What’s the most delightful or delicious thing/experience you’ve given your attention to today? Describe it in full sensory detail if you can.
What does deep attention feel like in your body? What gestures or facial expressions might reveal the quality of your attention to those around you? If this is hard to answer for yourself, think about the facial expressions and gestures of others close to you.
What comes up for you in this process of sitting with your own inventory and paying attention to your own attention? Is there a story that emerges? An image? A message? Let your poem grow from there.
I look forward to reading what you share! There are very few things I would rather pay attention to than the kindness and creativity you all bring to this space.
I love the connection you made here, and the juxtaposition between the two parts. This feels like it came at the perfect time for me, once again. I'm calling this one there's an app for that"
.
I sink farther into the couch to listen
to a meditation I technically paid $70 for -
the first of many exercises which promise
to retrain my brain, helping me cope
with stress, and alleviating my chronic pain.
I can hear the frustratingly repetitive show
my toddler is now watching across the room,
a slight improvement from having it right
next to me, and just as I begin to tune it out,
a woodpecker begins its excavation
of our siding, though I can't imagine
there are many bugs hiding inside of it, and
now the dog is barking, and then growling,
and then grumbling...
.
I rewind the meditation and begin
the process of settling in, again.
I close my eyes and feel
the pulsing sensation at my temple,
at the base of my head.
I inhale and exhale to relax my jaw
because this is the only way I can remember
how to unclench, and I repeat this
as many times as it takes to relax enough
for it to stay unclenched, meanwhile
the woodpecker moves on, and the dog
drops back into her snooze, and my jaw
is finally loose. The tension in my head
has eased, and now I can feel the grief
and anxiety inside my body, as if
through a dream, which at this moment
sounds like such a relief, because
it is only just now that my body has found
the ability to tell me how tired I am -
and then the meditation ends.
As I mentioned in my reply to Lisa, I have been in sheer survival mode lately. I started back to work in August as a PreK secretary/office/floater and it is alternately exhausting - being in the classroom to relieve teachers for breaks and on recess duty - and slow - time in the office where there isn't much to do to mark time. But at the end of the day, I haven't had the mental where with all to concentrate on anything, writing, reading, crafting. Then I got Covid and at least concentrated enough to start a new TV show (The Bear - 10/10 would recommend). But creatively, I have been zapped. I am a deconstructing, questioning, ex-Vangelical Christian and I found a book recently that has helped called Breath as Prayer and it inspired my first poem.
Inhale
And breathe
The words I long to believe.
Exhale
Release
Feel a sense of peace.
Breath is air
Breath as prayer.
The second is more of a sentimental, reflective, nostalgic wandering that is just a draft addressing the fact that so much of our memories are lost to time and maybe if we had paid more attention along the way, we would remember more. It definitely isn't done and needs work.
We heard the years were short but the days were long
And we were going to miss them when they were gone
And how many times did someone mention
That those were the good old days?
But there was life to be lived and bills to be paid
And we hoped that enough memories were made
In the moments that we paid attention
To carry us through the haze.
And we look back on the pictures and try
To remember our ordinary lives
We wonder why the details of those times
Seem to slip away.
Time is a healer, time is a thief
Softening edges of pain and of grief
But stealing thoughts of happy times
We made along the way.