Lately, I’ve been noticing how narrow my attention can become.
When I’m stressed, overwhelmed, or rushing from one obligation to the next, my awareness collapses around whatever feels most urgent. A thought. A problem. A sensation. A feeling that says, fix this now.
Today’s meditation grew out of a practice I’ve been returning to again and again: open focus.
Open focus is a way of paying attention that doesn’t lock onto a single object. Instead of gripping the breath or wrestling with a thought, we let attention widen. We allow the body, the breath, the thoughts, and the environment to all exist at once—moving, changing, coming, and going.
I notice how helpful this is in everyday life.
In traffic, for example, when someone cuts me off and irritation spikes. The mind zooms in: They shouldn’t have done that. But when attention widens, there’s suddenly more room. I feel my hands on the steering wheel. I hear the hum of the road. The breath is still moving. The irritation hasn’t disappeared—but it’s no longer the whole story.
That’s what this practice invites.
We begin by settling the body into a posture that feels alert and at ease. Not collapsed. Not rigid. Just supported enough to stay present. You can feel this immediately in the breath—whether it can move freely or feels restricted.
As attention turns inward, the moment starts to reveal itself more subtly. Sounds arrive and fade. Sensations pulse and dissolve. The breath expands and contracts the body from the inside out. None of this requires effort. It’s already happening.
In open focus, we aren’t trying to improve the experience. We’re learning how to witness it.
We explore the space around the body—the air touching the skin, the distance between us and the room. Then the space within the body: the breath moving through the nostrils, throat, chest, and belly. Even the pauses between inhales and exhales become noticeable. These spaces are easy to miss in the busyness of daily life, yet they’re always there.
This becomes especially powerful when thoughts arise.
Instead of getting pulled into the content of thinking—planning, replaying, judging—we start to notice the space between thoughts. Maybe just a brief gap. Maybe a soft pause after a thought passes. And in that space, there’s often relief.
I see this show up in relationships all the time. When a difficult conversation triggers a familiar story, the urge is to react immediately. But if there’s even a little space—one breath, one pause—the reaction doesn’t have to run the show. There’s choice again.
As the practice continues, awareness widens further. The whole body becomes sensation. Tension isn’t isolated or fought—it’s held in context, surrounded by space. Even emotions like anxiety, sadness, or restlessness are allowed to rise and fall like waves, held by something larger than themselves.
This is one of the quiet lessons of the practice:
There is room.
Room for discomfort.
Room for change.
Room to start again.
Toward the end, we gently narrow attention back to the breath—not as a restriction, but as an anchor. And when the mind wanders (because it will), we practice returning with patience rather than judgment.
We finish by acknowledging the simple fact of showing up.
Gratitude for the breath.
For the body as it is.
For a moment that may not be perfect—but is okay.
Open focus isn’t something we do once and master. It’s a way of remembering, again and again, that life is larger than whatever feels most pressing right now.
And sometimes, that remembering is enough.
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