Refusing to resolve the question

https://stocksnap.io/photo/dark-room-X4L0SO1PM1
Copyright James Stamler (public domain)

At some time in the deepest part of my sleep I wake to the mattress movements of A getting into bed beside me. I'm aware of a slow crackling sound from somewhere on his side of the bed, accelerating rapidly as I listen. He throws an arm into the air with a shout, 'Ahhhgh' and swats whatever is making the sound to the floor.

'What was that?!'

'Ghhhh.'

I can feel in my stomach the fear of the worst (fire) and the hunger to know, which I would usually immediately satisfy in whatever way possible. But A's complacent return to sleep-breathing suggests that we aren't in immediate danger. 

As I am in a year of letting go I see the situation as a relatively easy opportunity not to resolve my question too quickly. I will refuse to satisfy my mind, and see what happens. 

I'm one of those people who has to have a reason for everything. If I can't find a real one I'll invent one. I have frequently decided a pain or change in bodily function must signify something particular, only to have it pass in a day or two without drama. I have often attributed a particular motivation to someone else only to find later that I was mistaken. And since my last experience of non-separation I've been frustrated at having no explaination, no mental structure to hang it on. How can you live like that, not knowing? 

I see, with some confusion, that other people don't have this need. At least not to the same extent. I remember the time when the children were young and I was explaining to my mother-in-law something of my thought processes in regard to their care, and she muttered, 

'You can know too much.' 

This was not something I had ever considered before.

A congenial neighbour has been talking to me about mindfulness recently. We seem to be always walking towards each other along the pavement. He has a long relaxed body, like an Afghan hound. I guess he must work from home becuase he's here in the daytime without his young daughter. He's smiling and laughing a bit to himself.

'Whenever I see you I think about mindfulness!'

'That's good, I'm a reminder to be mindful!'

He's friendly enough to laugh. We stand under one of the small and pretty trees that another neighbour arranged to replace all the large thirsty ones.

'How much mindfulness do you do?'

I figure it out in my head, looking up at the side of the houses. I don't know why it's hard but I don't figure it like that. I just do it. 'Half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the evening. But I try to be mindful as much of the day as I can.'

'That's exactly what the books say you're supposed to do! I sometimes think it would be fantastic to get together with other people who are interested and just talk about it for hours.' His long body is flopping about in the ecstasy of the idea.

'Yes!' I'm caught up in the wonderful prospect of talking about mindfulness in the intellectual abstract way I want to. Of hearing other people describe their models of it. 'Let's do it!' 

I went to a talk at London Insight which was a neurophysiologist talking about the brain mechanics of it and I would dearly love to share the unsatisfactoriness of what he said with someone who actually cared. Even though I know perfectly well that's not the way, it's been the circular path to pergatory so many times, it's pulling at me. 

I'm guessing that it's never going to happen anyway. He's busy and not particularly practical as far as I can tell. I begin to wonder where the ulterior motive is. Am I going to regret it if I make all the arrangements? Does he really want to or is he just putting ideas out randomly? But these imaginary situations are things I can also let go of.

Upstairs, A is still heavily asleep under the covers. The moment of fear at the crinkling and the demand for intellectual understanding passed in seconds when I'd decided not to satisfy it. The anticlimax is itself inexplicably surprising. 

And no I'm not going to tell you what it was.