There’s a curious moment that arises in meditation, or even in daily life if you’re paying close enough attention—a moment when the thought you’ve been following simply ends. It might be subtle, like a balloon slipping from your hand and drifting out of reach. It might feel like a cliff-edge where the next step was supposed to be, but instead there’s only space. And in that space, something is revealed—not as an idea, not as an insight, but as a felt reality. The chasing has stopped, and suddenly, what was being pursued is no longer the point.
Thought has momentum. Like a ball rolling downhill or a river following the groove it’s carved into the earth, the mind continues in a direction until something interrupts it—a shift of attention, an external sound, a conscious breath. Sometimes, it’s not even an interruption, but a letting go. The grasping weakens, and in that surrender, something deeper emerges. There’s no longer a question about what to do or where to go. What remains is presence.
This presence is not just the absence of thought; it is the field within which thought arises. And when thoughts fall silent, or at least grow quieter, what’s left is not emptiness in the hollow sense, but a vibrant spaciousness. A kind of inner transparency. The “me” that had been so tightly coiled around the chase is still here—but changed. Or perhaps not changed, but revealed in its more subtle form.
We might imagine ourselves as containers, buckets filled with experiences, histories, opinions, plans. But sometimes, that bucket springs a leak—or the bottom drops out entirely. In that instant, what defined us begins to dissolve. Not in a dramatic way, but more like steam lifting off a morning pond. The solid self turns porous, and through that opening we glimpse something wider: the awareness that has been quietly holding all of this, all along.
That awareness has no shape, no weight, no agenda. It doesn’t strive. It doesn’t chase. It simply knows. And when we stop grasping for the pleasant, resisting the unpleasant, or ignoring the neutral—when we allow each moment to rise and fall without trying to mold it into something else—the field of awareness expands. We taste its spaciousness. And, ironically, it’s this very non-grasping that brings the greatest clarity and fullness.
When the chasing stops, we discover we were never lacking. The fullness was here all along, waiting to be noticed, when we finally let go.
Spiritual Gravity 