Fragments of Reality

I’m inside a spaceship, surrounded by astronauts floating in the sterile, meticulously organized interior of the craft. Their clothing clean and white, the space filled with the hum of technology—wires, Velcro straps securing everything in place. I was one with them, secure, snug in a sense of order. As I turned, I noticed colorful, asteroid-like balls drifting toward me. Curious, I touched one.

Instantly, the scene shifted. The astronauts, having just returned from a successful space mission, were hugging and celebrating. I was there with them, caught up in joy, floating around in weightlessness. It was exhilarating. We were proud in our understanding of our interdependence and triumph. That scene dissolves and I’m once again surrounded by brightly colored balls. I touch one and this time I’m playing ball with the astronauts, running bases in zero gravity, dodging balls. Surreal, unexpected delight.

As this scene fades, I reached out to touch another ball. Suddenly, I’m outside the spacecraft, suspended in the vastness of space. The shuttle looms behind me; doors shut. The Earth beneath me turning, the moon above me still and bright, and I am utterly alone. Panic hit like a silent title wave. My heart races, knees buckle, my body freezes. There is no ground to anchor in. I’m suspended, sweaty, breathless, and terrified. My hands want to flap so I can fly, but I’m not able to move. I’m still, going nowhere fast. Desperate, I begin to call out for help. No one comes.

I then wake up but not in the usual sense, as this was not a dream. A gentle hand on my shoulder grounded me, and a kind voice invited me to remove my headset. When I did, I saw immediately that I wasn’t lost or along. I could see the truth of the experience I was having. I, along with roughly 50 others, were in a dark domed room in virtual headsets, with roughly 250 lights on the floor representing the balls of light in the virtual experience. We had all been exploring the vastness of space through "The Infinite," a mind-blowing exhibit based on NASA’s Artemis mission. All of us, people from different walks in life, experiencing surprising versions of reality based on our choices, each immersive experience lasting no more than 30 seconds.

When I took off my virtual headset, I was slapped instantly into reality. Sobered and embarrassed, I wondered why I hadn't thought of taking off the blinders sooner. Some part of me knew I was in an immersive experience; I knew it wasn't real. But in a state of panic, I forgot. I forgot that this was an engineered experience. It felt absolute. I was convinced - of what exactly, death? Fear trumped all reasoning.

This experience has me reflecting on how often we humans get trapped in our perceptions and fears, convinced that what we see and believe is the whole, lasting, and only truth. Just as people can become absorbed in political views or personal ideologies and panic into absoluteness, we easily can lose ourselves in our beliefs and feel disconnected from a broader reality. My reality in that moment of tightness and panic wasn’t the complete truth—just one experience among many.

As I felt more grounded, I realized the depth of this metaphor. We’re all in this dome of life, touching orbs—different experiences, perspectives, and beliefs. In the exhibit, there were over 250 orbs to choose from, yet I had only touched a handful of them. Such is life: In any given moment, we are only experiencing parts of an unfolding truth that we are all co-creating, realities we are choosing, all of which are brief and ever changing.

Awareness does not mean we will be panic free. I should know. I attended this exhibit twice and had a similar experience both times! Rather, awareness brings us into starkness with how things are and what's here now, whether it be fear or exhilaration. And it begs the question: Can we weather the humility of intense emotions that flood our body’s nervous system (those 30 hypothetical and impermanent seconds) when facing realities beyond our conviction, control, or preferences?

Insight is often retrospective, and how we perceive or hold experience is core. For example: What if the experience of being "shut out" of the shuttle isn’t exclusion, but a radical invitation to let go of what we know? What if floating in the vastness of space, untethered, is more than just a suspension of gravity, but rather how it might feel to release the identities that anchor us, the ones that narrow our perception. And what if feeling small within this infinite expanse isn’t aloneness or a measure of insignificance, but rather a reminder of how much we exaggerate our sense of importance within the grand scale of existence? There are countless "what if's!"

I continue to learn from this experience, particularly in my mindfulness practice, which offers a humbling and necessary reminder to pause, take a deep breath, and to open to the more beyond my proximate panic or fixation.

As we navigate these intense political times of alternative facts, division, uncertainty, and great mystery, take care of yourself. It’s important to remember that what we perceive as reality is only a sliver of truth. And sometimes, like in my experience, it requires that we take off the blinders, or to be willing to explore beyond the orbs we've touched, knowing that greater and more connecting realities are far more dynamic, multidimensional, and galactic than we can ever imagine.