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Things don't happen for a reason Sweet child No Life doesn't need a reason For happening It simply blooms forth With breathtaking chaos Rains down on you With senseless beauty And immeasurable heartache You can make up stories If you like About why things happen The way that they happened You can close one eye and squint To make up patterns You can tell stories of Tragedy Or perfection Curses Or blessings Or you can simply stand naked in The rain You can realize nothing Will ever really make sense Not if you're really honest Not if you're truly listening Nothing happens for a reason Yes, this is the truth This is it There is nothing else But your own heart Plunging Into reality Your own heart Drinking down The eruption of stars That is this radical emergence Of soul in body Of breath meeting sky Maybe There is nothing else to look for Maybe it didn't work out for the best Maybe it isn't an unfortunate mess Maybe no great spirit is helping Anything go your way Maybe Just maybe Life unfolds Relentlessly With no holy plan Maybe It is sacred Just as it is Its power and innocence Require no justification Its perfection requires no meaning Maybe nothing Means anything Other than what the Rose Means When it blooms It means Here I am Here I am Here I am Here I am - Maya Luna
You didn't come here to get mangled by the gleaming machinery of the Mind. You didn't come here to get welded and forged into a Republican, Democrat, Sunni or Shi'a, to get angry at your jagged shadow in broken glass, or see your own reflection as approaching disaster. You came to be astonished by a dust mote. You came to find the Maker of all things embodied in a dandelion. You are here to be torn by laughter and pain, then healed by the tang of a berry on your wild tongue. There are no right angles, no straight lines in the serpent body of the earth. Valleys, rivers, and hills are the only borders. Dark-eyed Mother Raven looks down and sees them as restless waves in the ocean of Holy Matter. What makes this planet sacred is the unfinished circle, not the wall. What guides us is the wayless curve in a labyrinth of fallen alder leaves after the storm, a cloud that stains the soft rice paper sky, brushstroke of geese in flight. Why waste another moment arguing for or against when you could slip back down a beam of breath, soft as moonlight, into the silent radiance you Are? - Alfred K. LaMotte |
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