I hold the spoonful of ice cream close to my lips, its coolness radiating faintly against my skin. The flavor is toasted coconut—or at least I think it is. I’ve had it before, or something like it, and my mind leaps ahead, expecting that familiar creamy sweetness with its nutty edge. But as I take the first taste, I pause. There’s the ice cream itself—soft, rich, slightly grainy with coconut shreds—but there’s also something else happening.
At the first layer, I notice the coldness blooming across my tongue, the way it softens into sweetness as it melts. The flavor is vivid and present, demanding my full attention. Beneath that, another layer emerges—my mind offering commentary. Yes, this is exactly like last time. It’s sweet, smooth, and comforting. Or maybe not? Is it a little more subtle than I remember? Was the coconut toastier before?
Then comes a third layer, the one where I start interpreting and judging. Do I like this? A part of me leans into the comfort of recognition, savoring the repetition of a flavor I’ve loved. But another part of me pulls back, wondering if I’m just chasing an echo of the past. And here’s the thing: can I really decide if I like or dislike something if I’m not fully present with it?
So I pause. I let the ice cream settle, tasting it as it is, right now. I try to strip away the layers of expectation and commentary and focus only on what’s here: the texture, the sweetness, the nutty undertone. And in this presence, I realize something—liking or not liking isn’t the first step. It comes later, after truly tasting what’s there. The experience has to be complete before I can decide anything about it.
As I take another bite, I feel the tension between these layers—experience, commentary, judgment—each one shifting and shaping how I taste. But if I stay open, even for a moment, the flavor becomes more than what I expected or remembered. It becomes what it truly is, and that’s enough.
Spiritual Gravity 