I’m sitting in the car, not driving, just waiting. Rain falls steadily, tapping the roof in soft, uneven rhythms. The windshield gathers it—small drops landing, spreading, finding one another. Some cling for a moment, suspended, others begin to move, pulled by gravity and the curve of the glass. They wander, zigzag, slow, then suddenly speed up, merging and separating, all drifting toward the bottom edge.
It begins to feel like a race, though no one has named it. I find myself watching closely, not knowing which drop will arrive first. The interest isn’t in winning. It’s in staying with the movement as it unfolds. The sound of rain fills the car, the world narrowing to this small, living field.
That same quality appears when I watch a game without rooting for either team. A play begins—someone moves, the ball is released—and for a few seconds nothing is decided. The ball is in the air. It could be caught. It could be missed. It could change everything or dissolve into nothing. The exhilaration lives in that openness. You don’t know what you’re seeing yet, so attention stays awake, balanced on the edge of not knowing.
Only afterward does it become a great play. Only afterward could it be chosen for a highlight reel.
If I watch it later, knowing the outcome, something essential is gone. The body no longer leans forward. The moment has already closed. What remains is a record, not an experience.
Life moves this way too. Moment after moment arrives without announcement, most of them appearing ordinary. But any one of them could be alive in a way that can only be felt while it’s happening. If attention drifts, I may only recognize it later, in memory, as something I wish I had been present for.
The rain continues. Drops reach the edge and disappear, replaced by others still finding their way. I stay with what is moving now, not knowing which moment matters, letting attention remain open rather than fixed. Nothing announces itself as important. Nothing asks to be remembered. And in that openness, something quiet becomes clear: the moment does not need to be named or completed to be alive. It is only when the mind steps aside from knowing what this is or what it will become that life is actually happening.
Spiritual Gravity 