This is a no-juice day–not feeling well, but not actually sick, either. It’s the perfect opportunity to rest in my recliner and notice, play with the exercises that Rupert Spira works with.
Is there actually any distance between the dog barking up the hill and the thoughts in my head? From my thoughts to the stars that are supposedly light years away? In my direct experience, they all occur in the same placeless place.
Can I find any boundary between the body and the chair, or it it one seamless sensation?
Is there any time except the eternal now? When has it ever not been now?
© Skye Blaine, 2011
link to photo: The Sculptor Galaxy