A blog is dead
When it goes unread,
I say it just
Day by day.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A whisper, “look!” In the flow, we go; traversing the land, not separate, but in sync, in silence. Step. Thought. Step. No thought. We exist, woven by time into the fabric of now. In fields of gold we lie, on a plateau, greeted by acrobats of the sky. An oasis, an adventure, a walk beside the mountain. In the breeze, between the trees, in the green valley caressed by the sea, we sit.
A whisper, “there!” Time frozen. Beauty, an earthly embrace shared not by two, but three! On a hair of grass, in the wind, motionless, a hummingbird floats. A heartbeat, its wings move like magic and we smile. In the moment, in the beauty of the present, there is no ‘other’, no separation, no tomorrow, only now, only ‘one’. Together.