At the edge of the pond

At the edge of the pond you can
be forgiven for thinking you’re at the edge, not the
center of things. Demurely, a bit cool, the
ducks acknowledge you, but don’t
engage. Other birds sing distantly, or
fly overhead like songs. … But listen:
gathered here, at the center, in this nest, this
home, is everything. Tropical worms and polar
ice caps are all here, from farthest nebulae to your own
jawbone, here. There is only one thing.
Kneel in the grass. Let it all in. Expand.
Let the whole of it enter you, the night-sky-deep
mystery fill you till you become the world.
Nothing is missing. Nothing declines to attend.
Open yourself to the whole company of it. Let it
pour itself into you, the scent of the woods, the
quiet cry of far-off orphans, all of it. It
resounds in you, a chorus of a million voices, a
symphony of stars and sea grasses. Let it
tell you who you are, how you belong to everything,
undivided, present, susceptible to beauty,
vulnerable to light. Let this be your
wisdom. But don’t think it. Breathe it. Inhale and
exhale. Notice the supple arms of the beech tree, the
yellow dandelions and their bees, the glory hidden among the
zinnias. Look at your hands. The universe is there.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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