Being and Doing

There seem to be two ends to the spectrum we call life — two polar opposites, two extremes. I think of them as Being and Doing. If I wish to be present, I must turn my attention toward myself, to my thoughts, my reactions, my sensations, and answer with my whole self the question: Who am I? But if I wish to write the Great American Novel, to convince a prospective client that I have the best product, or simply to check items off my to-do list, I must turn away from myself and focus my energy outside, to express, convince, accomplish.

I've noticed that when I sit quietly, moved by the glory of a sunset over the sea, my world stands still. I am at peace. But as soon as I stand up and go inside to prepare dinner, the calm and clarity vanish. "Is that inevitable?" I ask. While these two opposite modes never seem to co-exist, there's an inexplicable statement from the Gospel According to Thomas, that "I am a movement and a rest." Does that mean there's hope that the two will converge so that I can do and be at the same time?

Although I suspect most of us lose our connection with ourselves as soon as we go into movement, great dancers, great athletes and great actors are visibly centered. As we watch them move, we can't help but see how deeply connected they are with themselves while giving a superlative performance. What's their secret?

Clearly it has something to do with attention. When I'm sitting here quietly, my attention, which usually pours out into my life, into the things and people around me, comes to rest in me. Here I am. So why does it disappear when I move?

I've heard about the effortless effort, the un-aimed arrow which the blindfolded Zen archer unleashes from his bow in a centered and relaxed state. Zing! It cleaves the bullseye. How could that apply to me? Is it telling me that I'm bow, arrow and target all at once?

Excuse me! There are a million things to do: