Growing Home

our language is begging to be understood.

as we have become accostomed to spend more time talking then contemplating the meaning of the words themselves, and in such an equation we have robbed ourselves of all the beauty of liguistics (beckoning us to the truth of being).

and still more… our words only affirm our attachment to the world. we see thoughout our day, naming all that our 5 senses touch. naming every form, and emotion. naming and moving on, to the next name and form. we glaze over the gushing of god pouring forth from the moment, the feeling that rises within to touch the experience.

we go on missing out, infintely.

I walk in the woods, snaggs on the trail of my skirt leave me smiling. unhooking from bramble at intervals and loving the slowness a skirt invokes. not to mention the ease of bleeding on the earth and the draft of mother nature into me.

just moments these are floating to the surface of the substance of self.

sweet and humble. humble like the heart of country folk. not cultivated humbleness with an underlying tone of manipulation.

possibilites: I leave my front door to get into my car. I assume I am going to get in my car and drive to work. but anything could happen. I may slip and break an ankle, or meet another drivers incompetence. and I go on assuming this possibility of driving to work to be reality. and so it is with every moment. impermanent and loaded with possibility.

So what then is reality? if every moment of my life, as it appears, is strictly a possibility in the metaphysical mirror of the cosmos? What is Reality?

Here inlies the begining of a real inquiry into the nature of myself, god and the nature of the universe. As one.