What is normal?
It is a strange word.
I wake up at five in the morning and go cycling.
For me, this is normal.
For someone else, waking up at five in the morning voluntarily might be evidence of a serious psychological disorder.
I meditate every day.
Normal.
For someone else, sitting still and staring at a wall might seem completely absurd.
Normal depends on where we stand.
The same is true of many of the categories we use to understand the world.
Same.
Different.
Better.
Worse.
Beautiful.
Ugly.
Useful.
Useless.
We need these distinctions.
Without them, everyday life would become rather complicated.
But sometimes it is interesting to notice how quickly they appear.
Every morning I ride along the same road.
At least, I call it the same road.
The trees are there.
The houses are there.
The bends are where I expect them to be.
But the light is different.
The sky is different.
The leaves have moved.
Perhaps a branch has fallen.
Perhaps someone has left a car where yesterday there was an empty space.
And the cyclist riding along the road is not exactly the same cyclist who rode there yesterday either.
So is it the same road?
Yes.
Is it a different road?
Yes.
Neither answer seems completely satisfactory.
But before the comparison?
Before the mind says “same” or “different”?
What is it?
This road.
This sky.
This breath.
This ride.
Zen practice often brings us back to something very simple: noticing experience before we become completely absorbed in our descriptions of it.
The descriptions are not wrong.
Calling this the same road I rode yesterday is useful. It helps me find my way home.
But the description is not the road.
The road is here before I compare it with yesterday.
The sky is here before I decide whether it is more beautiful or less beautiful than yesterday’s sky.
And this moment is here before I decide what kind of moment it is.
Perhaps this is one of the quiet invitations of practice.
Not to get rid of distinctions.
Not to stop thinking.
Simply to notice what is here before the comparison begins.
Nothing to compare.
Nothing to measure.
Nothing to define.
Only what appears, just as it is.
