Sometimes, when I am very quiet and still, often in the early hours of morning before the busy-ness of mind has roused itself into a full throttle assault of self assertion, I feel a subtle stirring in my heart. Beneath a rubble of human sorrow, disappointment and debasement, a sprouted seed strives toward the surface.
This mortal experience is such a peculiar thing, with so much time and energy spent justifying and defending our own relatively insignificant existence, we miss the simple experience of living. There is no amount of thinking that will simulate the act of being and yet time after time, we try. In the predawn hours, I feel the surge of life rising within me and notice. Perhaps the simple truth is that life longs for life and the human act of separation isn't going to hold it back, any more than the strong arms of cement can impede the persistence of a dandelion determined to bloom. I imagine life's longing for itself is constant and when we are still, we can feel it pressing against the fissures of self with the promised reminder of Being.