|Featured Columnist – Meditations|
Deep fall. Fragrant, fresh with death carpeting the ground, filling the air.
A doll strapped to her chest, the little girl ducks behind a tree and giggles with glee as her older brother does the same. Their young, very pregnant mother joins them at the picnic site across the stream.
Shortly thereafter, an even younger-looking father walks up and lies down on top of the table.
Between us, the swollen stream undulates by. In a meditative state, I feel both as close as the golden leaves all around, and as far away as another planet.
A single sycamore leaf twirls to the creek and is gently but quickly swept downstream on the stationary waves.
The line we skate in life is between nothingness and movement, between death and living. There is no contradiction, no conflict between the two, because they are actually one. But there is a certain tension, necessarily.
Life is the swift current of the swollen stream. Death is the ocean into which all rivers drain, and from which all creeks originate.
It’s the space between thoughts, and the silence of thought that makes insight possible, and with it, the right usage of thought and knowledge.
There is much to do, but doing nothing must always have the first priority.