The Courage to Stand Still

The sun is shining and I’m here,seeing the world with my heart.(I see more clearly that way.)

After the thunder,the fireworks,the applause—is stillness.Full of everything.

It is enough to restand let the world sing.

What should I do,how shall I plan,what will I solvein my made-up life? —while you followa thistle seedon a breeze,in the sun.

Leave your self on a spider webin the evening sun, by the leaftwisting in the breeze, in the scent of hay.

One day I stop and find my self in stillness—a small boy’s voice is finally heard.

If you see a raindrop on a fallen leafand stop for a secondit means you’ve discoveredwhere words endand the world begins.

YesterdayI saw a little pink asterand stopped the rainfor a moment.

So wiseis the beeon the goldenrodjust beeing.

The secretis to let the stillnessenrapture youwithout breaking it.

What shall I do…what shall I betoday?he saidcorrectly.

Give me fireworks, give mefeasts, give me thrills. But findme stillness and I have the world.

Give me five minutesand I’ll find eternityon this chair, in this sunshine.

Give me a minuteand I’ll sink intomy place in the world.

Forgetting, I cryRemembering, I laugh.

I step outside and hearthe bee buzz and the bird singas the world greets me again—I’m still here, always here, always home.

If we can learn to wantless of more andmore of less;if we can stay stillat the precipice of desireand permit the deliciousness of more—while knowingenoughis moreenough.

Let me love what is—and one day grow as wiseas the daisy who lovesthe rain, loves the sun,and loves the windthat bends her.

When I was five, I’d do to the parkand play on the steep, metal slide.I learned then something I forget today—you only get where you want to gowhen you dare to let go of the sides.

When the coreopsis is thirsty it wilts.When the rain comes, it thrives.This is the most sane thing I’ve seen all week.

SometimesI thinkjoyis in themomentswe forgetwe havea tomorrow.

May I listen to the world,may I have patience in the world,may I trust in the world,may I relax into the truth of stillness.

On windy days, if we standand listen, we hear the treestalk with the breeze. It’s likethey were waiting for natureto ask them what they know.

I lie downon the grassand look up. The pine andthe mapleknit the world whole.

He stood stillfor a minuteto let the world in. The rebel.

Last year something, perhapsa deer or a beaver, cut a ringin the bark of the spruceand now the tree is dead. Its once-green needles glowbronze in the evening sun. I will probably cut it down—I’m not ready to seesuch beauty in death.

In this old housethe floors slope gentlytowards the middlebecause it knowsa true home is foundin the deep inside.

The thing about growing upis one day you realizeyou knew everything importantwhen you were five.

When fear swells inside,look down and seespring’s first blade of grass,defiantly, lovingly green.

On this sleepy morning of nothingnesswhen I count every needle on the hemlock tree,a woodpecker lands in its alivenessand I wake up.

Let me grow down againand allow the simplequestions of wonderto fill my open heart.

How easy it is to lowerour minds and fail to noticethe sun through the trees. Blind to paradise, we seekit in places away from hereand far from now. And so we wonderwhy happiness slipsthrough our grasping hands. Then one day we wake upand laugh at how readilywe missed what’s here.

I like to step outinto the dark of nightwhere only the moonis watching.

It takes stillness and trustto remember our greatesttruth is buried deep inside uswhere the noise of the worldcan never reach.

Still morning before snowstormwhen there’s nothing to dobut wait and accept.

Simply waitingfor the first rays of heavento peep throughthe cracks in thought.

Isn’t it ironic, he said,that the easiest wayto mend what ails usis to quietly relaxand allow it in.

Why does the worldinsist on rattling me?On poking me?On dazzling me?When truth`is found in the empty placewhere everything is.

I will chooselike it doesn’treally matter.

Perhaps the secretis to travelin ever-decreasing circlesuntil we returnto the centreof our selves?

Turkey feet form perfect arrowsin the snow. You can follow them,if you wish, on their wandering path.Pointing somewhere,going somewhere else.Walking in desire.

Where do we gowhen life’s glitter fades,when we can eat and drink no more,when we’re done talking and laughing? We go to stillness,where joy lives.

Glass, the great liar,pretending to give us the world,but opaque to the truth in the air.

I won’t try to change the worldbut insteadlistenand let the worldtell me howit is.

Do I dare quiet myselfand let wonderpry openmy heartto the world?

Little green cometdilute my troublesin the truth of time.

The wild part of me is alsothe soft part of me.There are no claws, no teeth, no blood.Instead, an opening, a melting, a loving.A letting in and a giving out.

I looked up…

Joy is…