Still Experimenting: The Part of Me That Won’t Land
Last time we explored staying with what is unclear. We looked at moving slowly with life and with what we’re noticing. We talked about returning to awareness without judgment, and we named it all fidelity.
I meant all of it because the practice of noticing is happening in real time for me. Once you begin to pay attention in this way, there is no shortage of experiments that can be run. Everyday, every moment, life offers us experiments, invitations really to discover those parts of ourselves that no longer serve us.
So, here is my latest experiment that is quietly unfolding. It is revealing something I wasn’t expecting, which is what noticing usually offers us; the unknown space, ripe for more experiments.
I notice that when I try to stay, really stay, right here with what is happening, I discover there is a part of me that does not want to be where I am. This part isn’t dramatic, it doesn’t revolt or shut down, it just feels like a scattered sense of things, like a slight buzzing. It has a slightly forward-moving feel to it, as if there is somewhere else I should be, even when there isn’t anywhere else to go.
If I listen closely to the buzzy felt sense, it says something like, “Maybe we should look toward the horizon.” I notice that the horizon feels safer somehow. It promises comfort, certainty, and a bit of control. It suggests that if I just think ahead, plan ahead, prepare a little more carefully, then I will feel settled.
But when I don’t move toward the horizon, when I actually choose to land in the moment, I notice something else entirely. I notice that there is…nothing. Staying here is not collapse, nor confusion, just an open allowing that feels like nothing.
And that open space unsettles me more than I would have guessed. I didn’t realize how much I rely on having something to orient around, some small structure to steady myself. What I believe is happening is that when that structure I rely on loosens, ever so gently and slightly, it feels exposing. In that exposed moment I want to retreat.
What I’ve discovered from all this experimenting and noticing is that I realize when I choose to be present, I also secretly expect something in return. Some clarity, some immediate knowing, some internal signal that I am doing this awareness thing correctly. Instead, what appears is spaciousness without instruction. My mind doesn’t know what to do with spaciousness and begins to second-guess, “What am I supposed to do with this nothing?”
If I can keep my awareness on the nothing, instead of the thought, I notice this scattered part actually becomes louder. Again, that surprised me. I don’t actually think it became louder, I just think that know that I’m seeing it more clearly I’m more aware of its felt sense in my body and the story that goes along with that felt sense.
Slowly, staying with the discomfort I began to see what was actually resisting. It wasn’t distraction, laziness, it was structure. I’m learning as an Enneagram Nine that there are ideals of myself that I have come to rely on, ways of being that seem to promise safety, competence, preparedness, peace, staying ahead of it all. These idealized structures were not created out of thin air. They were intelligent adaptations, formed by a younger part of me trying to navigate unpredictability.
Intelligent adaptations once organized my world.
Slowly, I’m learning that when I fully land in the moment with awareness AND discomfort, those structures loosen. There is less strategizing, less scanning, less subtle bracing, and that part of me that looks toward the horizon for answers experiences the structural loosening as a kind of threat. Not because something bad is happening, but because the organizing self, the one built on anticipation and quiet control, begins to soften.
This new noticing, I think, is the within threshold for me right now. It’s not an outer change or new philosophy, just the quiet edge between structure and allowing. Between looking ahead and remaining.
I’m not trying to eliminate the part that wants to move toward the horizon. It served me once. It kept me safe in ways I am only now beginning to understand. But I am learning to notice the structure without immediately obeying its command to move forward.
And sometimes, if I stay long enough, what emerges is not certainty or control, but a small, steady sense that I can remain here.
A couple simple reflections:
Where in your life do you sense a part of you looking toward the horizon, rather than fully landing where you are? Are there structures or ideals of yourself that quietly resist simply being here?
