Morning sunlight sits outside the window like a childhood friend waiting to play. It beckons me gently.
Sacred morning. Last night's silt has sunk and settled; waters are calm above. Fish and frogs whip their bodies in my mind, to be observed and described. Looking up from my mattress, I see their slick bodies in earthy tones. I see people I've known and people I've yet to meet. As I start to think of the day ahead, the marine animals become disturbed. Such moments are a stalking predator. I must relax my mind, lest I cause a whirlpool.
A chirp from a chickadee at the kitchen window and the weight of a cat on my legs are better segues to reality anyways. A tender reminder that no matter what form our thoughts assume when they get stuck in our heads, life goes on all around us. In superstitious Russia there is a saying: the end may be coming, but sow the field anyways. On the sea-bed I meditate on that. At this moment the bed is all that is confirmed reality. How long can I maintain this stillness? When will the hours of sewing arrive?
Swim bladders keep fish from becoming anchors. The chickadee who announces itself in punctuated gasps is driven by hunger. The sun that sits outside my window lights a billion people and countless more blades of grass.
The universe's resting state is turmoil. I scatter the fish and the frogs with my movement. Better go join the action.
Sacred morning. Last night's silt has sunk and settled; waters are calm above. Fish and frogs whip their bodies in my mind, to be observed and described. Looking up from my mattress, I see their slick bodies in earthy tones. I see people I've known and people I've yet to meet. As I start to think of the day ahead, the marine animals become disturbed. Such moments are a stalking predator. I must relax my mind, lest I cause a whirlpool.
A chirp from a chickadee at the kitchen window and the weight of a cat on my legs are better segues to reality anyways. A tender reminder that no matter what form our thoughts assume when they get stuck in our heads, life goes on all around us. In superstitious Russia there is a saying: the end may be coming, but sow the field anyways. On the sea-bed I meditate on that. At this moment the bed is all that is confirmed reality. How long can I maintain this stillness? When will the hours of sewing arrive?
Swim bladders keep fish from becoming anchors. The chickadee who announces itself in punctuated gasps is driven by hunger. The sun that sits outside my window lights a billion people and countless more blades of grass.
The universe's resting state is turmoil. I scatter the fish and the frogs with my movement. Better go join the action.
