Right now,
I have no interest in ideas or insights.
I am taking a vacation from meaning making.
For now the Barred Owls' opera at midnight,
The silver foxes scurrying through the dappled forest,
The winged seeds as they spin their way from branch to earth,
The lake, as the infinite waves drift gently to shore,
The melodious call of winged things that ripples out for miles,
The turtles sunning themselves on every spare limb and rock,
The flash of blue as the thrush finds a perch on which to sing,
The deeply rooted peace as I sit in the sacred grove of Beech,
The way the leaves shimmer in the fresh eastern breeze;
This is my Temple. This my Holy Communion.
My dissolution. My prayer.
Everything connected
Everything arising then falling back into this Silence
Everything
Singing your Holy Name.
Om Sat-Chit-Ananda.
(photo-Sunrise in Bushy Park - Max Ellis)
