The Gift of Attention

A Simple Psuedo-Foundational Mythology

The magic of human experience is born of mythology. To name a something is to erect a temple of meaning between us. To speak or think in words and sentences is to write labyrinthian sacred texts of values in our minds. And if I could only keep one mythology—if I could only pass on one bit of magic to my children—it would that of the given.

Whether my gift would be passed down or hold its value is dubious. The most powerful mythologies have a way of slow decay in which their magic—their original usefulness—is forgotten but their burden lingers on. But for now, and in this hour of mankind’s spurious and ailing mythologies, this magic is for me potent—as all magic must be.

The mythology of the given, of givenness is simple but pervasive, if given room to breathe: it is the notion that all parts of experience are handed to us—received. Not that an experience is given by some one or some thing—that may be the part of many another mythology to say—but rather that we simply receive all that we are and do and be.

I stumbled upon this story young, but in time it strikes me in new and stranger ways. I was thinking recently of something long and laborious, hoping to get to the end, and my mind wandered off to catch something more exciting. When my mind came back to me, back to the task at hand, I wondered why it came back at all. We often speak of such serious, bullying ideas like discipline when it comes to our minds—but there is no such thing. When a mind wanders off we should be overjoyed at its return, for as far as I can tell, we seem to do nothing but lay down treats and goodies in the hopes of it’s return, and we lay them down before it leaves, in moments of collection and simple thoughts. How could one discipline such a free spirit? Do we scold it for the absence? Should we make the mind mad?

But that is the great fear, is it not? That we should just go mad and never return. We know to fear this because we know, deep down, that even the mind is not our own. Every moment we share with the mind might be a moment of gratitude.

That is the way with mythologies: they inspire—nearly command—us to change our behavior. A simple truth becomes in some way anthropomorphized. Even if there is nothing doing the giving, we know that we should at least be a little thankful to the nothing or we may dirty some sacred ground.

What else might we say is given aside from the presence of the mind? Our histories, to be certain. We emerge into every now believing that there was a before, but the before is always gone. Our memories are all that remain—memories from a past self who no longer lives and breathes—memories collected into some story which we now receive.

Our placement on the earth and each sweet scent and taste, also given. How did everything align to land me on the floor in this very moment, in this very place? Surely I did not conduct the universe to place me here and now.

The morals and ideals which feel so personal, also given. My body simmers and rages without my asking on behalf of thoughts someone had long ago—some mixture of me and old books which together I scarcely recognize. I am a parade of activities and responses for a story in which I barely took part—they pile upon me from some time and place beyond. Am I just the watcher?

But would I even have known to watch? Who bestowed this magical gift of watchfulness—this idea of the watcher? How did I grasp it—how did I find this calm other within the otherness of myself?

And all of these truths! Nietzsche said it better than I will:

I shall never tire of emphasizing a small, terse fact [. . .] namely, that a thought comes when “it” wishes, and not when “I” wish; so that it is a PERVERSION of the facts of the case to say that the subject “I” is the condition of the predicate “think.” ONE thinks; but that this “one” is precisely the famous old “ego,” is, to put it mildly, only a supposition, an assertion, and assuredly not an “immediate certainty.” (Beyond Good and Evil)

Even our desires find us where we are—those majestic siren voices. On a lazy Sunday morning we are summoned from afar, overtaken by unwilled force to rise for breakfast—our stomach rumbles without permission, the smell of fried potatoes collapsing the will we thought we had.

And the will! What is this mysterious entity which we claim for our own? Something accomplished? Am I not always at the will of my will? I have never found him but a muse for a starving poet.

This story, this mythology of where I always find this thing I call myself, and find it as given, is the mythology I will not live without. For me, this mythology opens up countless doors of power and freedom and satiety. This story connects me infinitely to the magical wash of beings around me while yet opening between us the infinite chasm of being.

To me, this mythology of the given is almost the solid beginning—but it gives way—it laughs at beginnings. “Cogito, ergo sum”—no. We are. We think we think. We are free, and we are captive. We are riders on a wave; we are waves with riders.