See the shimmering and falling leaves of autumn. See anew and deeply. And as the leaves depart, you will see a trace of flights of freedom and acts of obedience, of total surrender and ways of compassion, of ancient prophets and monks, mystics, poets and philosophers. Be intimate with them like a passionate lover. This is one path that leads to a more meaningful life.
It is fall and it is lovely. The intense colours of trembling leaves, struggling, detaching, gliding and intimately kissing the ground. Moments blossom to re-write history and to reveal a kind of certainty that only the sacred is qualified to define. And as everything departs, everything also returns to a certain special place that our heart intimately knows from the beginning of time. Bittersweet existence, fragile, but immensely beautiful.
And then I looked at those dried wildflowers and roses on my table and the stack of books for a couple of minutes and I just know. They silently narrate the story.
It is 6:11 in the morning and cold. I love the quiet, the solitude, the soft character of freedom to read, to write and to contemplate without distraction. The big tree outside is a silent witness, so are the plants and the flowers and the birds. I would say this early morning is sufficient for my longing. It reminds me that this experience is a nicely written poetry about healing in a thousand ways, it is about a sense of clarity and spaciousness, it is a landscape of truth and love and beauty and hope, it is about a cup of hot green tea, it is about participating in a daily ritual of long ago, slowly flowing with the rhythm of time, it is something inner that softly strums the strings of our soul, it is about the absence of questions and answers, only wallowing in a sweet state of just being, of simply knowing intimately that this early morning is a quiet celebration of the human spirit.
An old song, a longing pause, a lingering look, a lost in thought. The air is still while the birds are quiet. And then I deeply remember, my heart is still in its rightful place.
A coffee shop, lots of talking, stabbing thoughts, a cup of green tea, a deepening night and I am reading a poem by the eight century Chinese poet, Wang Wei. I recognize an enormous truth that is present all along as I deeply engage those stabbing thoughts.
Early morning sun, the salty smell of a calm sea, glistening sand, the nostalgic squawking of seagulls, a lonely walk, a thoughtful moment, a recollected heart, and the silence that floats in-between thoughts. And I simply surrender.
The sun, the soft wind of summer, the fragrance of flowers, they all connive to bring me back forty years ago to where my heart forever belongs. Scraps of images flash on the hazy mental screen, unearthing deeply embedded ever burning longing. How mysterious the enabling of desires, of hoping, of remembering, of imagining the past as it continually teases the present. How mysterious it is for the heart so full of longing to tingle, to break into tiny pieces and bleed. And yet we love it when it comes up, we love it for what it is, we love it even if it breeds sadness because somehow it establishes our connection, because it redeems our absence, because it brings us closer to the very heart of who we are. But there is no denying that it aches. Therein lies its beauty, the hidden sweetness in what is aching.