When you see the rush of a wave to the shore, do you revel in the rush or ponder on the fact that it will recede?
When you see a leaf, all dried up and brown, drifting down to no particular point, to the welcoming arms of the earth, do you celebrate the life that the leaf has seen? Celebrate that it is going back to where it came from? Or brood the fact that this particular leaf will never again be back? Or experience the world the same way again?
The caress of the breeze on your face - should I revel in it or ponder about the vacuum that it leaves behind?
The warm clasp of a parent around a tiny finger - to support buttery steps - and then letting go - and then being there just around the bend to catch when the baby stumbles.
Is it the clasp or the absence of one that is felt more?
Though the universal condition is that all the rivers reach the ocean. All the journeys reach their destination. But is there peace thereafter? Seems not, apparently. Wave after wave hits the shore, perhaps seeking, perhaps searching. Perhaps learning. Or perhaps that is what it is supposed to do. To just keep playing tag with the shore. Only that the shore does not pursue the sea in return.
Instead, would it be better if the destination, the goal were to be a lake? To find your own. Be your own? And in that, find oneness with the universe. No beating on the shore. No waves of thought eroding the mind. Or does it really erode the mind or cleanse the mind? Or clutter it?
I, want to be a lake. A lake where a pebble thrown in causes a flutter, causes a ripple for but a few moments but to have it in me to be placid and calm again. Or maybe, why allow that handicap? What would it be like to feel fluid and airy at the same time...? Like maybe the notes that ensue forth from the piano? Airy and fluid. Maybe that would be it. Never knowing where the origin is. From the wood that is lovingly crafted to resonate or the fingers that cherish the keys. Or the force that make the fingers move. A ballet on the keys of a piano. A wispy, feathery, white, twirly, angelic ballet on the keys of the piano, in the dark with just a beam shining through to illuminate the masterpiece in wood that occupies space and time, which eventually keeps space and time.
From a weird beginning to something else. No end yet. But is there an end to anything? Or is this whole concept of beginning and end illusory?
Right now, in my mind's eye, I see a lake smiling at the first rays of the sun. A lake smiling at the morning breeze. A lake welcoming a leaf that settles on it. And a flower. A lake smiling at the music of the world. A lake that smiles. And its beautiful.