This morning, I took up the pen again as a part of my spiritual practice. Writing three pages each morning has changed me a thousand little times.
When we engage with what’s happening around us, we move into an active, engaged space where we can see and accept it all.
It was the oddest thing, for the teacher’s mouth was moving and sound was coming out, but the sound was just the kkkkkksssssshhhhh of tires on a road. Road noise.
Clouds float up to the sky. Rain falls down to the ground.
Google creates the illusion of a cyber-self. The mind creates the illusion of Self. Their operation is surprisingly similar.
Mountains erode. Continents drift. Planets orbit stars which orbit the centers of their galaxies which move through space and time at unimaginable speeds.
When the unruly buddha was very young, he used to tell himself stories. In bed, when he was supposed to be asleep, he would spin yarns, fantastic fictions that kept him awake well into the night.
Sometimes, living the contemplative life means doing something that most people would only do when they are high.
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