appearing as, yet continuing too as mystery - how one thing lends itself in seamless fashion to the appearance of another, a birds wing giving itself subtle to air, a flowers grace belonging at once to earth, sky, and now the moment of my observation. Nothing is truly found apart from anything else, it's a trace of one existence in a constant shift of becoming. Through this, I find life with meaning, but not self assigned, not personal in effect, but only that my own life, even in times it feels petty and small, is from the whole clothe of existence, that I somehow came to be through no effort, nor will of my own, and continue in this lending process - my appearance doesn't cease at the limit of my hand, no more so than the flower framed by air. As mystery, I become new in some distinction, yes, a constant shift of one becoming.
~
Peace,
Eric
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