Presence: When I See, I Feel

by Jennifer Sabatier

I know I am present when I see my child’s joy, and I feel the warmth in my chest. I know I am here, in my body, when I find stillness before my next step feeling the approach of the hummingbird. He buzzes and hovers behind me before he sips from the daffodil in the garden. I feel comfort in this exchange.

In the morning, from the kitchen I hear the familiar ringing of a spoon circling the bottom of a coffee cup, stirring in the cream. This is the sound of love, commitment, and ritual of the coffee my husband brings to me in bed each morning. I hear those morning bells, I feel connected to the day.

If I need to get away from all the noise, or I am struggling with internal commotion, I often go and sit in the tree filled space on the land where I live. There are oaks, juniper, elm, and Texas persimmon living together in harmony because of their diversity. The dappled light comes down from above making patterns of light and shadow that dance and move when the wind blows. It is like being on the bottom of the ocean when this happens. When the subtle light moves in the waves of the breeze, I feel pleasure as I am held and carried in the current.

Presence, if we have known it long enough, is often a feeling we long to return to and re-create in our day. Little purposeful sips of air, and long exhales bring me home to myself, to my body, allowing me leave the lists, yesterday, and tomorrow out of this precious moment.

There is the presence of intense focus, when I must respond immediately to an emergency or crisis. All of the cells in my body move toward ensuring safety and security of what is dangerously out of balance.

I also know the concentrated presence of falling into my own flow with the Devine as I paint with oils on canvas, smelling their rich odors and experiencing their vibrant colors. I feel full, nourished. My hands are a physical extension of the cool flexible wire that I twist and string with gem stones to create a mobile. I see what I create is beautiful, and I feel deeply connected.

Perhaps we are lucky enough to know the gentle inviting presence of taking in the sweetness of holding a newborn baby, caring for a dying friend, or making ourselves a cup of tea at bedtime. Being present for these experiences, my body, mind, and spirit know that ‘I am here’ receiving more than I am giving.

Presence has a particular type of motion to it, and order even, of bringing chaos into form. This is ritual and expression, making visible what it is we observe and experience. This is the ultimate act of creation, making manifest an expression of our beingness.

Finding more presence in the new stillness of isolation that is upon us has been helpful for some and terrifying for others. Presence may be what we have been avoiding as we fill our calendars with too many commitments. Obligations bring tranquilizing comfort that we can stay numb and not really be where we are. With a knowing these ‘have-to’s’ we have created for ourselves will overflow into the next day, we have a padded room ahead keeping us from seeing and feeling.

Presence requires us to be with ourselves, feel what our bodies have been trying to tell us, and acknowledge and value the losses we have endured.

If the losses have been piling up and are on the brink of collapsing under the weight of pain, our attention will soon be demanded as we physically and mentally suffer a crisis.

Tending to the little losses—a broken glass, a dying plant, a mistake, or a misunderstanding—with our presence begins a practice and ritual to respond to the world more fully. Practicing presence, when we see and noticing what we feel, opens us to the possibilities of showing up in bigger moments too.

When you see the clock on the wall, feel the tick-tick-ticking in your body. We have a few seconds of presence. This time is just for you, an act of self-care.