"To see we must forget the name of the thing
we are looking at." ~Claude Monet
What happens, happens. That is all. A flower of energy in the void, incomprehensibly sacred, with absolutely no "meaning."
The mind makes up a story about it, superimposing its melodrama onto this marvelous dance of unfathomable suchness.
Yet, however heroic or tragic, our story can never be as extraordinary as what actually IS.
What is, disguised in the form the present moment, is the formless infinitude of Being, arising in ever-dissolving splendor as a portal of liberation.
But instead of stepping through the portal, we resist it. We want to change this moment, reform it, and redesign its Presence to fit our story.
Which of course is impossible, because Presence cannot be "fixed." It is always already happening.
Have you ever asked, "What would the world be like if I welcomed this moment, without copying and pasting my drama over it?"
Perhaps Winter would come, then Spring. A raindrop might be a raindrop, shaking the stars. The owl crying in the forest at night, nothing but the mystery of itself. Every breath a mysterious gift.