Attention Inventory
“An hour is not merely an hour, it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.”
-Marcel Proust
I am currently in a season where it feels time is slipping away at a pace I can barely process. I’ve been wondering what it might look like for me to attend to time in a way that doesn't dull my senses or leave me feeling exhausted. I’ve felt the internal pull to take inventory of what I am placing on the front burner.
I have struggled with ADHD my entire life, and attention has been something I have to nurture with a peculiar mixture of practice and forgiveness. Most of the time I laugh about it, like I did last week: when I put my daughter's homework in the freezer as I was asking her to get started on it. While at times a mishap like this can be maddening, I will cherish the extensive laughing fit we both fell into that evolved into a kitchen dance party and then getting to homework unregretfully late. While facing the terrible, fun, and annoying aspects of this resource of attention, I am constantly reminded—for better or worse—of its precious value.
Research tells us that at least 69% of our waking hours are engaged in consuming information. We consume almost 90 times more bits of information today than we did in 1940 and four times more than we did twenty years ago. In this era of unrelenting stimulation, our minds, bodies, and spirits have little chance to be optimal.
It’s challenging to decipher all of the ways these strains of attention affect us—it’s as if we feel the essence of life but aren't quite engaging with the life right in front of us. It’s easy to believe that in order to survive we must be hypervigilant, ever-informed, and prepared—that we must be constantly producing, proving, or challenging. Yet we find:
Being informed is not the same as paying attention.
Consuming is not the same as sensing.
Analyzing is not the same as observation.
Judgment is not the same as receptivity.
The overworking of our attention causes confusion in shared spaces of dialogue—both online and in-person. We need space to sense and embody—to sit with and to learn the art of our own lens. We need time to be bored and to step out of the proverbial loop. You're not merely an aggregation of information; you are an embodiment of your own aliveness and creation. It takes courage to get quiet. It takes work to stay close to what brings you joy.
Mark Nepo writes, “We have become addicted to the noise of everything falling apart.” We can feel the disintegration, yet the soft and tender things hold us together.
Staying attuned to what you find most meaningful is what determines your growth, the tuning of your voice, the richness of experience, and your sensing in this world. In this fast-moving season of life, I’m practicing taking inventory of my attention. Here’s a small glimpse into what I have found meaningful to note:
— I am trying to garden, though I don't know what I am doing. But seeing what has grown gives me a sense of pride and satisfaction that lives outside of me.
— Nori is having a moment in my kitchen. The experiments are simultaneously shameful and delightful.
— Sunshine is heaven no matter how warm, but living with southern insects quickly brings me down from the high.
— I recently read that Patti Smith once spoke of “friends that magnify your spirit,” and it's a phrase I won’t easily put down.
— Regular fasting from world news has both little consequence and a significant nervous system reward.
What soft and tender things in your world are currently holding you together?
Pulse + Pause
Create your own attention inventory and notice what presents itself. What feels meaningful, inspired, or worth letting go?
What is something in your field of attention that gives you a sense of spaciousness or permission to protect your quiet?
A blessing:
I hope your voice is resounding
That your quiet is at peace enough
To echo all that you add to this place and time
That your senses swell, inspired by the small and hopeful right here
