As if we weren't there - and yet a presence fully known. This paradox, a self traced back to an empty hold on all things. We are at once the detail and broad stoke of life greatly painted. Yet more, we are the presence unfolding as an empty canvas, allowing, always offering more by sake of absence in the mystery of this art.
~
The truth is - we aren't really there, or here, in an individual sense. We are found in the detail and found again as the holding space that allows details to be form. It's magical. While running we can see ourselves in a continuing state of becoming - we are the current ground beneath the foot, the tree held within our gaze, and air that joins against us. Yet all this is within something much broader, something endless, infinite in its capacity to simply hold. And this too is who are - this too is especially who we are. So yes, in truth, even our specific sense of self is in fact a temporary expression given as a joy to play in details. We are there. But more, we are here, in the endlessness that holds it all.
Peace,
Eric
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