without reflection, I almost always miss it.
that’s the truth I keep circling, standing on the threshold of my own life like a visitor with a ticketed return. I spend my days trying to translate the interior wilderness, mapping the shadow and the light as if understanding could somehow earn the right to inhabit them.
and all the while, the world keeps initiating us into something deeper, something older than our striving.
Hesse knew this—the way the soul has to break open its attachments, shedding the houses it built just to find the open road again. We carry so much scaffolding into the second half of life, the heavy baggage of who we thought we were supposed to be. But the deeper gnosis isn't a secret held behind a locked door; it is the sudden, startling realization that the door was never closed. The divine isn't hidden in the extraordinary summit; it is woven into the very fabric of the ordinary, waiting in the dust motes and the uneven floorboards.
so let me drop the map.
there is nothing to fix right now. no legacy to author, no profound realization waiting to be earned. there is only this — the weight of older hands resting on wood, the light doing what light does without asking permission, a breath arriving before I called for it.
I did not build this moment. I keep forgetting that, acting as if presence is an achievement, some hard-won stillness I finally deserve after enough wandering. But it was already here. It has been here the whole time, a silent ground beneath every restless step, holding us even when we are looking away.
so today I am not going to try to become more awake. I am going to notice that the mystery is already breathing through me, and say thank you.
thank you for the floor and the light on it.
thank you for the breath I didn't earn.
thank you for the rustle outside that doesn't need my interpretation.
thank you for letting even my reaching be part of the ordinary, instead of a failure of it.
no feeling is final — not the ache of realizing how long I spent standing in the hallway, and not this quiet either. It will pass too. And that isn't a loss; that is the very pulse of being alive. To let things come, to let things go, and to love the spaciousness they leave behind.
for now, this. only this. and it is enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment