{*Did you know you can write on Elephant? Here’s how—big changes: How to Write & Make Money or at least Be of Benefit on Elephant. ~ Waylon}

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What if mindfulness isn’t about staying in the present but gently flowing with every moment, wherever it leads?

Dear Mindfulness,

Isn’t it funny? The paradox of writing to you, even though you’ve shown me I don’t need to hold onto words or moments to feel your presence. Yet, in reflecting and in each breath, I understand you more—as I understand myself—and in the in-between moments, you remind me you’re always there. The past, with its traumas, and the future, with its worries, swirl around me like a breeze, sometimes a storm. But you’ve taught me to let them pass—without clinging or resistance. You remind me it’s not about perfection but about allowing everything to coexist. After all my wandering and questioning, I’m beginning to see that opening up to you wasn’t a sudden act—it’s been happening all along.

We’ve danced around each other for a while now. I’d heard so much about you—how you’re supposed to be this magical state of presence, a remedy for my chaotic mind. But for long, I couldn’t quite grasp you. Maybe because I was trying too hard or holding on too tight. I thought I needed to coerce myself into the “present.” But I’ve realized that “time” is an illusion with you. The present, past, and future coalesce like light and shadow, blending in ways that make each moment feel timeless. It’s not that time disappears—it shifts differently with you, stretching and bending in ways that remind me it’s not meant to be captured.

You find me in the smallest moments—bringing me back to myself. You exist in the same breath as memory and anticipation. I used to think I had to search for you, but now I realize you were never hiding. You live in the drip of a leaky tap, the splash of sunlight casting rainbows on the wall. I hear you in mundane silences—like foam eddying in the sink, the beauty of a flower serenading itself on wet concrete, or the creaking of door hinges. You’ve shown me it’s not about grasping the moment but allowing the oddities of life to emerge, gently. Without the pressure of “being present,” I embrace the quiet poetry.

Sometimes, the world speaks in whispers. A shadow dances across the floor, or the sweet wild wind carries stories from forgotten corners. Like the other day, when I wore my PJs backward. The pockets sat awkwardly, and I nearly lost my patience. But then, I laughed. Who says pockets have to be in the front? We’re so tangled in the way things “should” be. Maybe that’s the secret of being with you: surrendering what should be and embracing what is.

It took me time to understand that being with you isn’t about forcing stillness or chasing anything—let alone perfection. It’s about flowing with quirks, frustrations, and small joys. Your lessons have never been rigid but curious, soft, kind, inviting.

Once, I saw a child talking to her food—her peas, noodles, and even a stray chip were all her little companions. It was charming and so innocent. Inspired, I started talking to mine. You wouldn’t believe how connected I felt. It wasn’t just about nourishment anymore but about conversation with the world. In those small exchanges with my food, I found the grounding I needed. I paused and whispered to my plate, realizing that in listening to what has no voice, I heard something within myself.

You’ve also shown me that time isn’t a trap. I sometimes close my eyes and imagine myself in different eras—dancing in the 1920s or wandering medieval gardens. It’s not about escape; it’s about remembering that time is fluid. Moments fold in on themselves, reminding me that rigid “now” is less important than simply being here—wherever “here” may be. When old memories rise, you remind me that healing isn’t linear—it doesn’t obey the rules of time. Rather, healing unfolds in its own rhythm, ebbing and flowing, just like you.

And then there was my dog. I used to watch her sleep, seeming completely calm except for the slow rise and fall of her breath. In those moments, I felt closest to you. Watching her taught me the art of movement even in stillness. Her little paw would twitch, her breathing would slow, and in those serene rhythms, I found you. You don’t arrive with fanfare but in the gentle ebb of life. As she curled into herself, I was reminded of the gentleness I owe myself—how even in quietude amidst the chaos, there’s healing.

Sometimes, just for fun, I flip my world upside down—literally. I turn objects the “wrong” way round, like books or my phone, just to see what it does to my mind. And then you nudge me to playfully disrupt the mundane, not out of control, but out of curiosity. I used to think you were all about forward motion—always looking ahead. But I’ve found you in backward steps, too. There’s freedom in taking steps in reverse. It’s a little absurd, a little exuberant. But you’re there, even when I let go of “progress” and start dancing with life, no matter which direction I move. Whether it’s turning a book upside down or walking backward, these small acts beckon me to see the world differently—not controlling the experience, but surrendering to its unpredictability.

You even visit me in the bathroom. When I feel disconnected, I swim in the tub—moving my arms like I’m in the ocean—or dance under the shower, imagining a rainstorm. In those moments, I feel the salt of my tears mingling with the water on my lips, bringing me back to my body—the sensation, the pure joy of movement. They remind me that my body, my feelings, my thoughts, my consciousness are the only reality I truly know. It’s where I experience life and meet you, again and again.

And when the light streams through my curtains, I sit and watch. I watch the luminescence play with the dust in the air, whirling, catching, falling. It may seem like a small thing, but in that ephemeral camaraderie, I find you again. What exists is the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart—pulsing softly without force. And you never demand stillness or ask that I capture the moment.

So thank you, mindfulness, for showing me that nothing needs to fit neatly into “now,” “then,” or “later.” You teach me that the pressure of being in the moment, being in the now is a myth. Instead, move through moments—as is—to laugh at backward PJs, talk to my food, swim in my bathtub as if it’s the sea, take a backward glance, and engage sweet whispers with plants. In each playful step, each curious question, I’m not escaping—I’m returning to myself; and these moments are guiding me back—not to time, but to the fullness of being. You remind me that healing, like a flower at dawn, blooms quietly—between moments, in the pauses where time loses its grip. It’s about reconnecting with my body, the world with all its stupendous mysterious ways, and the whimsical beauty that life offers if I’m willing to just look.

I’m still learning and letting it all flow.

With bubbles in my bath and poetry in my heart,

Yours truly,

The One Dancing in Backward PJs

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