How can it be that this activity I am physically engaged in, sitting on the couch writing in my notebook, is the only thing I am supposed to be doing right now? That feels so wrong. What about all the other things I feel like I’m supposed to be attending to?
Where would those actions come from if this body, this person in the flesh, is here doing this? What else is my tool of action if not this body, this organism? Can my body be in multiple places at once? Is that possible? My mind seems to think so.
Here is my body. I see it in this space, feel its weight on this couch, with pen in hand, notebook in lap. My mind is mired in should thoughts, but, meanwhile, my head (where my thoughts reside) is structurally attached to my spine, which is here on the couch with the rest of my body. That evidence is the firmest proof of my whereabouts. And, yet, I still feel seduced by the belief that I could be doing other things.
How can it be true that this activity is the only one physically possible for this moment? Why is my mind so chronically mistaken in its calculations?