Winter Morning

Simply observing that this inhalation is given, not taken, turns breathing into Grace.

As crystals melt in my hand I hear the thunder of seeds under snow, preparing for the feast of Imbolc.

A very tiny embryo in each seed, stamping her feet on the ground and reaching her fingers toward a star.

The stunning perfection of this snowflake is directly proportional to its transience. If I am not willing to melt, to dissolve, I will never be beautiful.

Every Cause must pass through the crucible of the miraculous to bring about its Effect. The miraculous is the space between thoughts.

Causation is an illusion imposed by the mind's hunger for control. If you want to live in the realm of the miraculous, the shamanic, you must give up this hunger. Break every connection between cause and effect, embracing the possibility of other worlds between this moment and the next.

In fact, nobody has any idea what the fuck is happening, where it comes from, or where it is going. It is all a bonfire of mercy. "Cause" and "effect" are jagged sparks, fractal afterimages of the miracle, reflected in the mind.

No line of reasoning threads the multiverse together. The cosmos is a burst of singularities, separate particles, unique selves, all made out of exactly the same luminous no-thing, all happening at exactly the same moment in eternity. To see one is an illusion. To see many is an illusion. God is wonder.

This is not an idea on a Winter morning, this is a drop of sap on the beak of a rose-breasted nuthatch.