[E]very moment in life is absolute in itself. That’s all there is. There is nothing other than this present moment; there is no past, there is no future; there is nothing but this. So when we don’t pay attention to each little this, we miss the whole thing. And the contents of this can be anything. This can be straightening our sitting mats, chopping an onion, visiting someone we don’t want to visit. It doesn’t matter what the contents of the moment are; each moment is absolute. That’s all there is, and all there ever will be. If we could totally pay attention, we would never be upset. If we’re upset, it’s axiomatic that we’re not paying attention. If we miss not just one moment, but one moment after another, we’re in trouble.

Suppose I’m condemned to have my head chopped off in a guillotine. Now I’m being marched up the steps onto the platform. Can I maintain attention to the moment? Can I be aware of each step, step by step? Can I place my head in the guillotine carefully so that I serve the executioner well? If I am able to live and die in this way, no problem arises.

Charlotte Joko Beck, Tricycle Magazine, Fall 1993

If you get used to paying attention in your sitting, moment by moment, breath by breath, thought by random thought as they arise, then you may find that, without even having to turn your mind to it, your attention will hold whatever it it you are doing – shaving, walking, waiting for the lift, fastening your shoes – and you will discover that it is unimaginably delicious, just as it is. A jackdaw looking in the grass by the verge of the road for things to eat among the grass stems, the sound of a bus pulling away into traffic – priceless things, lovely and complete in themselves, simply because they are.

There is something even stranger, too. The sting of the little cut on my thumb where I was in too much of a hurry chopping the shallots for lunch, the twinge in my knee that reminds me that I am going to die – sooner, now, rather than later, since I am an old man these days. These too are precious, particular things, lovely just as they are, just since they are.

Occasionally I do find myself reminding myself to pay attention – and so (as a bonus) reminding myself that there is no stable self to remind – but generally, you know, it’s just something that happens. When I practice, when I am faithful to regular sitting, it happens, more and more as time goes by. Just to be here is the loveliest thing, wherever it is I am at this moment; and all I have to do is notice that. Whatever is is precious because it is, not for what it means, nor for what it might lead to, but only because it is. In every moment of isness everything is, like the reflected world within a raindrop, only wholly present as itself. There is nothing to lose. The instant of death is as lovely, and as necessary, as the moment of birth. Nothing means anything; everything is meaning.