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The Art of Being

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Waves relentlessly carried away sand from the shore, replacing and grinding it in a never ending cycle; a gazelle’s eye flashed as a wild hunter pursued it across the plains it called home; time shifted around an imperfection, creating a pebble in the tide of infinity; a baby screamed for its mother; a sun rose; a sun set…I was connected to the world and its workings. I lay there as the seen and unseen blew around me, and I was a leaf caught in a rushing flood of realism, thought, feeling and sound, so much sound. A door creaked like the bones of an old man as it was opened; snow drifted to the ground in great flurries, creating a tiny pattering only there for those who listen; a kitten yawned; the ticking in a mattress sighed and shifted as a young boy rolled in his dreams.


The world works in mysterious ways. I can’t recall who it was that said that. As I laid there in that torrent of light, emotion, mystery and life, I felt time slow around me. I concentrated on the feeling of being a great oak in an ancient forest, a newborn baby fresh from her mother, a star in the sky looking down on the Earth. I neither was nor wasn’t. I slept but I was awake. I wasn’t here or anywhere else I could have been. My feet were on the ground, but I was flying.



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