The Taste of Now

The Taste of Now

“If you fall down because of the ground, use the ground to get back up.”

At first, this sounds almost obvious. If the ground causes you to stumble, the same ground is what you push against to stand again.

But lately I’ve begun hearing it differently.

The ground isn’t just the earth beneath our feet.

The ground is now.

Every obstacle appears now. Every frustration, every fear, every moment of overwhelm arrives in this moment. And almost immediately, without realizing it, the hand reaches for something.

A book.

A stretch.

A cookie.

Meditation.

Conversation.

Work.

Planning.

Distraction.

The object itself isn’t the point. It is what I’m calling an intoxicant—anything I reach for that softens discomfort or shifts me into a preferred state.

The interesting part isn’t what I reach for.

The interesting part is that I reached.

That reaching is a clue.

Instead of following the hand outward, what happens if I follow it backward?

What was I trying not to feel?

What was the obstacle?

Now the practice changes.

Rather than escaping the discomfort, I become curious about it.

Where is it in the body?

Is it a tightening in the chest?

A heaviness in the stomach?

A restlessness in the legs?

A pressure behind the eyes?

What is its texture?

Its movement?

Its taste?

The obstacle is no longer an interruption to practice.

It becomes the beginning of the practice.

The very thing I wanted to escape becomes the ground I stand on.

Fear, for example, isn’t a wall. It isn’t even a substance. It has sensations, thoughts, memories, and energy—but when I stop trying to avoid it and simply walk through it, I discover that it changes. It moves. It teaches.

Like walking through a waterfall.

From a distance it looks solid.

Up close, it’s only water.

This has changed the way I think about meditation.

Sometimes awareness rests completely on the breath. The breath fills the foreground while everything else fades into the background. At other times, that same awareness opens to include the whole body—the softness of the muscles, the quiet vibration of aliveness, and the changing landscape of thoughts and sensations.

Neither approach is an escape.

Both are ways of resting on the same ground that first revealed the obstacle.

The obstacle doesn’t disappear before the practice begins.

The obstacle is where the practice begins.

Maybe that’s what it means to discover the taste of now.

The obstacle is one flavor.

The impulse to reach is another.

Curiosity is another.

Stillness is another.

Each is part of the same moment.

The ground that seemed to make me fall turns out to be the very ground that helps me stand.

The Dip Before the Reach

One question has been following me around lately:

What happens just before I reach for something?

Not what I reach for.

What happens before the reaching.

I’ve been thinking about the idea of intoxicants—not just chocolate, but anything I turn to in order to feel a little better.

A book.

A stretch.

A walk.

Meditation.

A cookie.

Conversation.

Even a favorite thought.

At first, I assumed the important question was, What am I reaching for?

Now I’m beginning to think the more interesting question is, What just happened that made me reach?

There seems to be a threshold of comfort.

Most of the time I don’t notice it. Like waves on the ocean, my energy naturally rises and falls throughout the day. Sometimes I feel open, clear, and relaxed. Other times there’s fatigue, tension, uncertainty, or simply a vague sense that something isn’t quite right.

When that wave dips below a certain point, the reaching begins.

Usually before I’m even aware of it.

The reaching isn’t the problem.

It’s the clue.

It’s the footprint that tells me something just changed.

Instead of following my hand toward the thing I want, I can follow it backward.

What shifted?

Where do I feel it?

Is there tightness in my chest?

A heaviness in my stomach?

Restlessness in my legs?

A buzzing in my mind?

The reaching becomes an invitation to investigate instead of an automatic habit to satisfy.

I’ve also noticed something else.

Not everything I turn toward is an intoxicant.

Sometimes all I need is to glance at one of my sketches.

Or see the cover of a book.

Or read a single sentence that has stayed with me.

Those moments don’t necessarily make me feel better.

They remind me.

They point me back toward something I already know.

That’s different from seeking relief.

An intoxicant says,

“I need this to feel better.”

A reminder quietly says,

“Oh yes… I already know the way home.”

Maybe that’s the real practice.

Not eliminating the reaching.

Not judging it.

Simply noticing the moment before it begins.

That tiny dip in comfort may be the most important moment of all—not because something has gone wrong, but because awareness has just been invited to wake up.

Perhaps every reach begins with a dip.

And every dip is an opportunity to remember that what I’m looking for isn’t somewhere else.

It’s waiting in the awareness that notices the reaching itself.