Making Time By Going Slow — Mud and Miracles

The stiller you become the more you can see.

Red dragon flies, ruby meadowhawks... hundreds,

hovering like helicopters above a surface of green

Before they join the dance with one another

In circular patterns around the pond.

To and fro white flowers.

A bull frog or two. Spotted by sound.

A northern flicker.

Common grackles.

American robins.

Black northern water snakes

A bit scary if stumbled upon by surprise

Yet, too, sly and sultry in her ways

Seducing you to be a bit more like them.

A yellow jacket that might sting

but we stand by breathing calm and curious

and she says hell

and saunters away.

I place them quietly and consciously.

My mind drifting between restful appreciation

and tiny glimmers of ideas and inspirations…

Write more.

Come and walk and sit and breathe and notice and give thanks

and then write. Everyday.

Let it come to you,

from you,

up and out.

Set it free. Set you free.

Even if only for the joy of it- it's enough.

But, too, you know very well that

it's also for the healing... for the freedom.

Your gift is your duty. Your dharma.

Everything comes when you're awake in the stillness.

When you take a moment to feel that you're alive.

Sunlight and shadows.

Brilliance in contrast.

Colors and shades. Mostly green, blue, and black.

Reeds. Wind. A distant lawn mower.

Bullfrogs. An airplane.

Ideas talk. My pen writes.

When five minutes are up

I'm aware of lifetimes of not paying attention.

And, so, I've gained eternities of living

in just a fraction of time.