The miracle is always in the momentary, the infinitesimal, the perishing bindhu that leads awareness back to its wonder-witness Self.
When our mind imposes global concepts and generalizations onto the so-called "world," we never perceive the vulnerable and perishing suchness of the particular. We only see our belief about it. And when we are holding onto permanent ideas, we can't dissolve into compassion.
Those who attained enlightenment attained it through the sound of a sparrow, the scent of a blossom, the revelation of a fallen sunbeam on a pebble in the stream. Stop worrying and look. There is no world, there is only the whirled. Golden dust motes in voluptuous blackness. Subatomic radiance of moth wing.
Photo by Laurent Berthier