I lie on my bunk at a retreat, staring at the skylight-window above me. I am discouraged that the awareness I enjoyed during and after a previous retreat is gone, gone, gone.

In one corner of the skylight, a bug crawls around in circles. It keeps bumping into the window frame, and each time, it stops there for a moment, then resumes its endless going nowhere.

I know what it’s like, buddy, I think.

The window is partly lit by sunshine, partly in shadow. The bug is in the shadowed corner.

After a while, after much circling, the bug makes a wider arc and moves toward the sunlit area. It stops, half in shadow, half in light. I become very, very interested in seeing it move forward.

The bug turns and heads back into the shadow. My heart sinks.

Round and round it goes. Bumping into the window frame. Stopping. Resuming.

Now its circle enlarges, and again it heads for the light. Again it stops halfway. I’m practically praying for it. And again it returns to the dark.

More circling, more bumping, more stopping, more resuming. And another, still larger circle.

The bug is completely in the light. It’s staying there. Yes, yes, yes. I myself light up with a smile.

Time for me to leave for meditation. I look at the bug one last time. Oh, NO—it’s going back into the dark again! But maybe when I return. . .

Or . . . maybe this is just the way it is. Back and forth, round and round, where it stops, nobody knows. Maybe it never stops.

Shall I blame the bug when it’s in the shadowed part of the window, fret over it, give up on it—in a word, suffer? Or can I simply notice whatever it does, paying attention with interest, curiosity, acceptance, compassion, even a smile?

Ah . . . with that thought, I am in the sunshine.