Worlds

It hasn't rained in weeks.

The earth is dry, and hard, and dusty. Pollen shines wafting slowly in a breeze so gentle you could mistake it for stillness. Somewhere in the distance someone pounds metal and glass and concrete, and it rings through the trees.

Every time I forget to think and just breathe, there is a different tonality to the base sound in the world. I forget to focus, I forget to do anything but breathe and feel and reach out into the world, and it responds.

Every time I breathe deep the wind rises.

I'm making a deliberate attempt to pay attention to things to which enough attention has not been paid. It is clear, during the day, during the week, that too much time is spent driving, bustling, busying, symbolizing, labelling.... and not enough is spent experiencing.

It is also patently clear that these points of focus which monopolize the attention are like drawings on a game board. These things have substance just a short time, and when they change, they end.

But the world, the world beneath the world, when it changes, it doesn't end. It develops. It self-organizes.

In becoming diverted by the artifice of being a person, we are distracted and distanced from being a soul. As a soul, we are part of the world beneath the surface, we are part of that which grows when it changes rather than breaking down.

I'm breathing deeply and staring at the sky to see if I can make the rain come.