On restlessness, and what happens when you stop fighting it.

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Some mornings begin in the loop. You know the one. You wake up, the mind is already running, and before you've had a chance to breathe, you're watching yourself watch yourself — aware of the restlessness, aware of the awareness, going in circles.

This morning was one of those. So I wrote it down.

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I.

I am in a cage of my thoughts, feelings and emotions.

I can see all of them clearly on a movie screen theater —

as if I were watching them like clouds in a blue sky.

Restlessness and boredom, another name for feeling stuck.

Stories, assumptions, judgements, analysis — all mind made stuff.

Memories and ego — another structure of the mind.

I can see all this but still feel like I can't get out of the loop.

What is it that I am missing?

Why do I seek to be out of the loop?

Is that my mistake?

Trying to get out of the loop — or making the loop my enemy?

What I truly seek — isn't it just not feeling restless and bored?

Today too I am back in the restless loop.

Trapped like a hamster stuck on its wheel.

How many times must I watch myself complain about my mind being a blank canvas?

A blank canvas — any artist would crave for it,

so they may draw, create something that satisfies them.

Restlessness → do something new → have to put in effort

→ resistance to effort → stuck → restlessness.

That's the pattern.

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I sat with that for a while. Not trying to solve it. Not trying to break the pattern by naming the pattern. Just — sitting.

And then something else came. I didn't call it. It arrived on its own, the way things do when you stop pushing.

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II.

Today, the black cat was sitting on a lotus leaf in the middle of a pond. The duck was swimming in the water. Today too it was raining.

The cat was no longer writing. He was just enjoying himself, lounging around in the middle of the pond, floating on a lotus leaf.

Once again, neither the black cat nor the duck was troubled by the rain that was falling. They were in their own flow. Flow with nature.

As the black cat drifted on the lily and lotus pond, there were many reeds that would brush by him. The water formed ripples from the rain falling on it — pitter platter pit pat.

It was another quiet day in the pond that the cat and the duck loved. Enjoying what is.

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Same morning. Same mind. Same rain.

I don't know what shifted. I didn't do anything differently. I didn't apply a technique or follow a method or talk myself out of the restlessness. The poem happened, then the story happened, and somewhere between the two something loosened without being forced.

The black cat isn't trying to escape the pond. He's not annoyed by the reeds brushing past him. The rain falls and the water ripples and he floats. That's all.

What I notice, looking at both pieces side by side, is that the poem is full of questions. What am I missing? Why do I seek to be out of the loop? Is that my mistake? The mind working very hard on itself, turning itself over, looking for the exit.

The story has no questions. Just — the cat on the leaf. The duck in the water. The rain, doing what rain does.

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I'm not drawing a lesson from this. The restlessness will return. It always does. Tomorrow morning there may be another poem, another hamster wheel, another blank canvas I don't know what to do with.

But today, for a little while, there was also a lotus pond. And a black cat who had stopped writing and was just — there.

Maybe that's enough to notice.