What have we been, in the very ground of our being? What might we become? These questions are of past and future. In trying to answer them, we will not find peace.
Carry the wind of the present in your heart and you will never thirst. You will participate in eternity. You will experience Real Time, not clock time, not practical time, not linear time.
We carry bow and arrow but not much power.
Let us have no use for it.
There is no room left to breathe when we make too much of things, when we are swept into drama. The drama takes up all the space.
The simple things, small things, have the most power to bring us peace. There is space around them. They are not so small after all.
Enter deeply into your neurosis, your anxiety, your panic, your confusion, your suffering, and your fear – get to know it’s textures, qualities and fragrances, and allow it to take you into the secret chamber buried inside your own body. For within the mandala of tender ripe aliveness there are jewels beyond the mind. – Matt Licata
Meanwhile, the wind blows, incredibly. The sun rises – seen or unseen – and moves across the sky, incredibly. Water covers most of the planet. Effervescent laughter is remembered. The vast silence of the world helps quiet the noise of your mind. The great emptiness fills you up and calms your heart. Do not be too eaten up by your own life.
Celebrating life’s riddles as blessings in disguise requires a willingness to be open and flexible.
Rather than questioning everything, you just watch closely, wait patiently, and listen deeply.
It’s kind of like lying down on the ground and letting it support you.
In working with Coyote – the trickster who tricks even himself – there can be no rigid thinking, no frame around the picture. Perceptions are dissolved, expectations are deconstructed. One must take oneself less seriously, welcome laughter, crack open the shell of one’s own ego.
An open heart is required, and it is like the open road: lending itself to endless possibilities, allowing whatever wants to come next to happen, inviting the mind to loosen its grip on everything it has convinced itself of, softening into fearlessness and deep listening.
The processes of nature, miracles all. How full of folly we are, how powerful, how small.
Reluctance to leave the soft envelope of bed this winter morning, reluctance. It’s where the heat is, after all. But the whirring and humming and clunking of the mind (reliable engine) harasses the body out of rebellion and into obedience.
And for good reason: there is wood to be chopped, snow to be shoveled, water to be boiled. There are dishes to wash, floors to mop, plans to be drawn. There are walls to be built and torn down, ragged roads to salt and plow. There are the needs of children, the old, the sick and disabled, the animals we keep. There are the ceaseless demands of an entire world, all the things of man, waiting, waiting.
But then there is this winter morning, and the spell of first light, and everything white and silver-gray speckled with russet and evergreen, and the yellow glow of lamps in the windows of houses, and the owl in the tree who thinks I don’t notice him.
And with the slow symmetry of this snow falling, so neatly, so gently, how can I do anything but stand and stare?
How can I do anything except surrender everything, put down my sack of worldly accomplishments, and turn my face up to the sky, grateful to have known such a morning.