"Cup your hands in front of you. I am going to drop something into them - you must keep your eyes closed," she asked of us. I cupped my hands the way I always did in meditation; right hand folded into my left, palms upward. The exercise was about acceptance and precision - accepting that which was offered and then feeling it in that moment - exploring it, enjoying it, experiencing it. I patiently waited my turn, hearing her slowly moving closer.
"Just don't let her drop a moth in my hands," my illogical brain whispered. I batted the thought away, recognising the timely arrival of fear. I let it go as I felt her moving beside me. I heard the paper bag rustle by my ear and I waited for the "something" to fall into my hand. This was becoming a game of trust. I concentrated on my breath, in-out-in-out. Just trust. The rustling ceased and then I felt it. The sudden sensation of weight in my hand as a tiny lump of something fell against my little finger and then bounced into my palm. I could sense its weight but seconds later, the sensation of it disappeared. It was though my cupped palm was empty again. I sat and tried to imagine what it was that she had dropped into my hand. I could recall the anticipation before she dropped it there - but now that I had experienced it sitting there, the sensation of it being there was gone. It reminded me of our material world - pumping out all the latest "must haves" that we wait upon with bated breath. And the minute we have them in our hot little hands, that sensation of having them disappears and we are left feeling empty handed once again - the exploring, the enjoying and the experiencing all gone before we know it.