What if I were to live from the inside out, not the outside in? I have stopped running. Weapons and illusions cast to the ground, sigh of peace and relief. From the inside out, there is no out. Silence. There is only this, whatever this is. It’s a flowing river, and I have no reason to make up a story about it. Why exist at all? Who knows; a beautiful this, this is.
There’s pain and joy and rotting crepe myrtles along the wooden fence. There’s a trampoline in the neighbour’s yard and moss hanging from the trees on the street behind the house. There is a feeling of hunger, a gentle breeze on the skin, the smell of humid, swampy Louisiana air. I can almost feel the mould spores multiplying on the wooden panels of the screened in porch; Life, everywhere Life. And I marvel at how this ended up here, as me. “Attention is the beginning of devotion”, Mary Oliver said.
What if I were to follow this wherever it takes me? Riding the wave of perception, thoughts and feelings, what new configurations of life unfold, what miracles?