Even though I clearly see that anxiety serves no purpose, that it increases suffering, that the ground of awareness is unmoving and not affected, still the body runs adrenalin. It’s not pleasant, but here it is, like it or not. It has no specific story, but I have to assume that hiding in the recesses, there is still some untilled belief–and fear–about an uncertain future. Silly: as though any unfolding moment holds any kind of certainty.
The path curves; I cannot see around it. The words spill out, from where and by whom?
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2012