Mind delights in entertaining itself with stories of magic and mystery.
Some moment–now, or in an eon or two–thought notices the endless, repeating, always-behind-the-present nature of itself, and tires. No-thing it followed, yearned for, and commented upon has fulfilled its longing for more, for answers, for riches, for love, for understanding. For the briefest instant, thought stops.
The whisper of a crack appears. Dust settles there. Perhaps a trickle of water finds its way through. A seed plants itself. Maybe a teacher appears. Soon, the crack is an ever-widening crevice, pushed open by the roots of knowing. There is no stopping the process; the pattern has crossed the point of no return. Frightened, thought–which in turn is laced and embedded with feeling–scrabbles for the known. But the known is unreliable; it comes and goes. Suffering or chaos ensue. Little bubbles of grace erupt. Eventually, the pattern cannot hold together, and crumbles, finer, finer–much like the first dust that floated into that tiny fissure.
Mind quiets, or at least is not given much credence. It is recognized for what it is: a necessary tool for some aspects of life.
A generous love blooms.
And what of coincidence? Each time, a gentle reminder that this unfolding pageant stems from the same eternal, infinite source.
©Amrita Skye Blaine