still this feeling, on such a beautiful day, that there’s something I should be doing, though I can’t think what – make another list, write it out, write through it? Still that need to contain, control. Just stop. Lie on the floor in corpse pose, breathe. Oh look at that - silver birch against blue sky. There are new leaves swaying in the wind. It is spring. Finally it is spring. Oh, it is here. Oh. Is this my stone for today? It feels like it, something tearing straight out of me.
Why do we/I try to do so much? When so much arises from doing less, from paring down, from being still in the fear of emptiness, the pain of it. So much arises. So much springs up, blooms. Despite ourselves. We don’t disappear, we don’t shatter. Every year, softness breaks through dark wood, each tiny petal – a whole season.