Be here now with the softest breath of wind, the flur and buzz of the dragonflies circumnavigating the pond. The light skims south over the water with the myriad insects nicking its surface and purling strange shapes and spirals. Absolute silence but for the beating of some heavy thing down the mountain way, and the droves of wings.
Know that you are contoured to fit all that you can hold, like this pond, like the palm of God cupping the world. If you watched long enough you could see the slow turning of the mountain in its deliberate arc eastward, bringing that sun to earth. Do you think you are not blessed, a wild and bright thing of skin and substance? You try too hard to find miracles when you alone are the holiest of happenstance, a living thing upon a rock. You have come here to be alone in the swimming, earthen sea, and something trembles on your shoulder and kisses you awake for an instant. You will never be forsaken. You understand now that you will never die. Cease looking for signs when every instant breathes one up and drops it heavy and warm into your waiting and ever-present body.
--Written at Kinsman Pond, White Mountain National Forest, July 31, 2013
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