What is this?

It’s such an ordinary question that we probably ask it every day. But what happens if we ask it without rushing to find an answer?

Throughout our lives, things are constantly appearing.

A sound appears.
A thought appears.
A memory appears.
Stress appears.
Joy appears.
An uncomfortable feeling appears.
Someone says something we don’t like.
Someone says something we love.

Something is always appearing.

Usually, as soon as something appears, we react. We name it, explain it, judge it, resist it, hold onto it or try to change it.

Often this happens so quickly that we don’t even notice the reaction.

But what if, when something appears, we try something different?

Can we simply stay with it?

Not to suppress it.
Not to analyse it.
Not to make it go away.
Not even to understand it.

Just to stay.

And in that space, gently ask:

What is this?

Staying with the question

We’re not asking What is this? because we’re looking for the right answer.

If an answer comes immediately, that’s fine. We can notice that too.

The invitation isn’t to stop thinking or reject answers. It’s simply not to rush after them.

Can we stay with the question for a little while?

Can we allow ourselves not to know?

Can we notice what happens when we don’t immediately react?

Maybe an emotion changes.

Maybe it becomes stronger.

Maybe it softens.

Maybe the mind becomes impatient and wants certainty.

Maybe nothing changes at all.

None of these are problems to solve. They are simply part of the investigation.

Why practise with a question?

There is a very practical reason for working in this way.

Much of the time, we don’t simply experience what is happening. We experience something and almost immediately react to it.

Stress appears and we want it to stop.

Fear appears and we want to move away from it.

Something pleasant happens and we want to hold onto it.

Someone says something we don’t like and, before we know it, we’re already constructing a response.

The question What is this? can give us a little space.

Instead of immediately following the reaction, we stop and look.

What is this?

What is actually happening right now?

What does this feel like?

What is the mind doing with it?

And perhaps most importantly:

Can I stay with the question without immediately needing an answer?

The benefit isn’t that we become people who never react, never experience stress or never feel fear.

The benefit is that we begin to recognise our reactions while they are happening.

And when we can see them, we may discover that we don’t always have to follow them.

There may be a little more space between what happens and what we do next.

Sometimes that space might only last a second.

But a second can be enough.

Enough to notice.
Enough to investigate.
Enough to choose rather than simply react.

The more familiar we become with staying with experience in this way, the more available that possibility becomes in ordinary life.

Everything is part of “this”

The question isn’t really about stress, joy or fear.

It’s about what happens when experience unfolds and we don’t immediately step in with a conclusion.

Everything that appears is included.

The sensation.
The emotion.
The impulse to react.
The story the mind tells.
The desire for an answer.
The silence.
The uncertainty.

Everything is part of this.

We’re not practising What is this? because we need to discover the correct answer.

We’re practising because the question gives us an opportunity to stop, look and become curious about our experience before deciding what it is or what we should do about it.

And perhaps, occasionally, to discover something that can’t be found by reacting immediately.

What is this? Who am I?

This question is closely related to another classic question of Zen inquiry:

Who am I?

Perhaps they are not so different.

When we ask Who am I?, we’re invited to look before reaching for the familiar answers — our name, our history, our roles and our ideas about ourselves.

When we ask What is this?, we’re doing something very similar.

We’re looking at what is here before immediately naming it, explaining it or deciding what it means.

With both questions, the practice isn’t necessarily about arriving at an answer.

It’s about staying with the question.

Who am I?

What is this?

What happens when, instead of reaching for what we already know, we remain curious?

Perhaps the important thing isn’t whether we ever find the answer.

Perhaps the question itself is the practice.

Have a go

For the coming week, whenever something catches your attention — a strong emotion, a beautiful tree, a difficult conversation, waiting at a traffic light, washing the dishes — pause for just a moment.

Ask:

What is this?

Don’t rush to answer.

Let the question remain open for a few breaths.

Notice how quickly the mind wants to provide a label.

Notice the impulse to explain, judge, accept or reject what is happening.

And then perhaps ask:

Is the label the experience itself?

There is no right answer and no wrong answer. There is nothing particular that you’re supposed to discover.

Just play around with the investigation.

See what happens when you stay with the question.

The invitation isn’t to become someone who “doesn’t know.”

It’s simply to discover whether our experience might be richer than the first explanation we give it.

What is this?