Phenomenologically

[/ˌfɛ.nəˈmɒ.ləˈdʒɪ.kəl.i/] adverb

In a manner that relates to or is concerned with phenomena, particularly as experienced subjectively.



The Elusive Now

Time moves with an unsettling rhythm: fast enough to make memories blur, slow enough to make us ache with longing late at night. In the absence of mindfulness, we wake up, carry out our routines, push through, and suddenly find ourselves looking back, wondering how months—or years—have slipped through our grasp.

The struggle to be present often feels like swimming against this current. Even as we try to hold onto the moment, our minds drift—to tasks undone, to futures unwritten, or to pasts we wish we could revisit.

It’s as if the present moment resists being noticed, always vanishing the second we attempt to grasp it.

A view of the sky from the Eiffel Tower, where the tower is visible but not the focal point. The image emphasizes mindfulness and the practice of being present in the moment, focusing on the expansive sky instead of the landmark.A view of the sky from the Eiffel Tower, where the tower is visible but not the focal point. The image emphasizes mindfulness and the practice of being present in the moment, focusing on the expansive sky instead of the landmark.

Lately, I’ve started taking pictures of the sky. Not of the landmarks, not the crowds, not even the people around me—just the sky.

There’s something liberating about it. Unlike the typical photograph, which tries to freeze time and hold onto a fleeting moment, these pictures of the sky feel like the opposite.

They don’t attempt to capture the present—they remind me that I don’t need to.

Mindfulness tip: It’s not about the sky

Although it is often beautiful, the sky isn’t the focus in these photos. It’s about what it represents to me, what they make me feel.

While looking at them, I’m not transported back to a perfect moment or a well-composed scene. Instead, I’m reminded of a time when I was able to let go, a moment in which i was no longer trying to hold on.

The pictures brings me back to a feeling—not of the moment itself, but of the presence I allowed myself to have in that moment.

It’s strange, but these sky photos feel, to me, more honest than the ones where I’ve tried to capture every detail. Definetly more honest than those times I took hundreds (literally) of pictures, just to never open them again.

They’re imperfect, incomplete, sometimes even unremarkable. And that’s what makes them deeply meaningful to me.

They remind me that life isn’t about locking every detail into a frame. It’s about living the moment as it happens, without trying to make it permanent. Life is all about its own passage.

These photos aren’t mementos of the sky itself. They’re reminders of the times I looked up and simply was. They don’t try to capture; they let go. And that’s why, paradoxically, they feel so full to me.

They don’t pull me into nostalgia or make me long for what’s gone. Instead, they remind me to trust the fleeting nature of now.

Maybe mindfulness is less about what we hold onto and more about what we’re willing to let pass. A fleeting breath, the feel of sunlight on your face, or the quiet act of pointing your camera at the sky—not to capture, but to let go. Maybe that’s enough.

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