I was reading on the bed, about Bodhisattva, while lying on my back with my feet up, resting cross-legged on the wall. My big dog curled into a ball next to me, and does well to heat me in this big, chilly house. Laughter from upstairs, many feet in and out, round and round, it’s always lively. I am immersed in this perfect moment. Nothing spectacular, nothing more than the utter ordinary. Who’s to say simplicity cannot be beautiful? When looking for the truth, we pick so deep, causing so may pieces, simpler and simpler still. To see anything for what it is, simplicity must be employed. I take a broad view to allow myself to get so specific, deeply woven in all this, free to witness always its inherent beauty, because all is as itself, all is the same and therefore moves together flawlessly. These perfect moments are everywhere. When I can be as the moment, stay present, and see the illusion that is myself, all fog is lifted, and I can peer at the universe, as perfect and now as it ever was. I am not in full control of how much light I let in, there is no me, I am becoming the light.
“You can’t get through the Doorway to Nirvana with your ego intact any more than you can shove a grand piano though a mouse hole.”