Become What You Behold

    

The dust mote on your little toe is a portal to the space beyond the stars. A drop contains the whole ocean. There is no photon of light or electron of matter not clustered with distant suns. Those who insist, "I am not this body," have never descended into this body, or discovered the golden infinity it is made of. Matter doesn't delude us into smallness, but mind. Cloud concepts melt in the blue sky of wonder. Become what you behold. Let nothing intrude between body and breath, nothing between breath and Being. This No-thing is a silver thread that shines from the soles of your feet through the hollow in your chest, to the crown of your head, to a distant quasar. Worlds form and dissolve like pearls of dew on your web of nerves. Don't let the technicians make you feel like a marionette, dangling from a zodiac of planets. The planets are dangling from you. And those gentle beasts, the constellations, grazing in the circle of eternity, obey the faintest tug of your beating heart.

Image: William Blake