Friend, we've been straining to become what we already Are. The cosmos is woven of humbler threads, fainter vibrations, murmurs of silence. An old man sits in his cottage by the misty cedar forest. Stirring honey into his tea, he stirs the earth around the sun. A single mother is up at 3 a.m. rocking her sick baby. She tilts the planet gently on its axis. And that moth you met in a mountain meadow ten summers ago, reposing her violet wings on a lupine? She fanned the air just enough to bring snow this Winter, with a promise of thistle blossoms in the Spring. Now it is morning, time to bow down to this ancient breath. The world is not saved by much doing.
Water color, Andrew Wyeth
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