The first word written on a black page sets the trajectory of thought.
Where to begin?
I don't know.
I stand captivated by uncertainty and the gross human need to explain the unexplainable,
define the undefineable,
comprehend the incomprehensible.
I listen to the jumble of w o r d s bumping about in mind and wonder at the preoccupation with thoughts and the artificial buffer they create, affording us the illusion of control and certainty.
I wonder what it might be like to b r e a t h e, without judgment or criticism of the breath itself or the quality of the air… just breathe.
I wonder what it might feel like to cease, for a moment, our mental/emotional hustle and let all that is arising BE exactly as it is.
Then we, like flowers swaying in the breeze of our own belonging, simply bloom.