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Waiting for The New Yorker, an Out-Of-Body Experience

Yesterday, I reached into the mailbox expecting to grab The New Yorker magazine. In order to accommodate my daydreaming about how I would enjoy the issue, I had to shift my attention away from the world of hands against doorknobs, boots against floor, the whooshing sound of buses outside. In other words, I moved away from the world that my body was experiencing and a part of, and sat up in a kind of treehouse with my thoughts. We can't divide ourselves so well – if we are deep in expectation, we aren’t really in our body, and vice versa.

I was already imagining The New Yorker, planning when to read it, savoring its dense, text-heavy pages, its nonchalant handouts of humor and criticism. Then I had a flash of awareness. Wait! I’m still at the mailbox, getting rustled by a January wind, using way too much tension in my arms.

By remaining undecided about the next moment, there is a lack of fixation which we can come to enjoy. There is less tension in the body, less worry in the mind. It’s clear possibility. What's next? Danger and fortune. Life. Or maybe this, a cartoon about cetacean weight loss.

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