It is a paradox in the contemporary world that in our desire for peace we must willingly give ourselves to struggle.

We are full of bread and gas, getting fat on the outside while inside we grow thin

There is a still place, a gap between the worlds, spoken by the tribal knowings of thousands of years. In it are silent flyings that stand aside from human struggles and the designs of our own makings. At times, when we are silent enough, still enough, we take a step into such mystery, the place of spirit, and mystery, we must remember, by its very nature does not wish to be known.

tears have a purpose. they are what we carry of the ocean, and perhaps we must become the sea, give ourselves to it, if we are to be transformed.

Telling about our lives is important for those who come after as, for those who will see our experience as part of their own historical struggle.

A woman once described a friend of hers as being such a keen listener that even the trees leaned toward her, as if they were speaking their innermost secrets into her listening ears. Over the years I’ve envisioned that woman’s silence, a hearing full and open enough that the world told her its stories. The green leaves turned toward her, whispering tales of soft breezes and the murmurs of leaf against leaf.

Mystery is part of each life, and maybe it is healthier to uphold it than to spend a lifetime in search of half-made answers.