The Stream

Worlds are lost when thought becomes ordinary.

The collateral beauty of the mundane.

Perhaps emptiness is simply that which permits creation.

Perhaps being is already here, waiting for someone to be forgotten.

Awareness is Nothing, because it is Everything.

Consciousness lost in the beauty of its own becoming.

Remain faithful to what revealed itself.

Does the path carry you?

What remains if the 'me' is not here?

The Lake asked for neither.

The silence thinks me.

Perhaps we are meant to lean.

The waves arrived first. Everything else followed.

The Nature of Sitting Practice.

The silence held us both, though differently.

The lake offered no lesson, yet I left having learned something.

The waves had not changed. Only my willingness to move with them. Practice is not conquest, but belonging.

The Year upon its hinge.

An ordinary mind on an ordinary day.

The question lingers longer than the bird.

The rain never falls on the same lake twice.

The lake held the colour of rain before the rain arrived.

The lake did not ask for preference. It simply received whatever arrived.

A single leaf carried the whole season.

For a moment, the distinction between observer and observed seemed unnecessary.

Some places are remembered by the body before the mind.

Practice hides inside ordinary days.

The thought vanished before it became language.

Perhaps attention changes the shape of time.

The cold asks for full attention.

Winter arrives in fragments before it arrives in full.

There is a specific resistance in the lake this morning. Not the cold, but the density.

A brief moment of eye contact before the world resumed its separate movements.

There is a rhythm to repetition that acts as a solvent for thought.

A change of register in the wood, minutes before the first drop arrives.

Before the day asks anything of me, there is only the kettle and the window.

Not large, not small. A shift in how the room was holding itself.