Stop Moving. Seeking Being Nothing

Stop moving. I sense it almost as a command. Obeying, I stop, not realizing that I was moving. It’s just what happens. I sit, try to get comfortable, fold my hands, cross my legs, close my mouth, open my eyes, listen carefully, breathe and wait.

Stop moving. Breathe deeper, more, unfold my hands, uncross my legs, try to remember how to relax, close my eyes, focus on releasing tension from my forehead, cheeks, jaw, mouth, neck, shoulder, wrists, hands. Deep breathes into my abdomen; loosen hips, thighs, knees, ankles, toes. Breathe in-out, in-out, deeply.

Stop moving. (Sigh. What am I doing wrong?) Concentrating, controlling, manipulating, forcing a state of relaxation. Movement is more than physical.

Stop moving. The mind, forever multi-tasking, scheming to avoid chaos, trying to appear conscient. Attempting to control thoughts from scattering different directions like a dandelion seed head waiting for the slightest puff of wind, flitting, never settling long enough to take root before drifting aimlessly nowhere in particular; struggling to feel grounded.

Stop moving. No ‘to dos’. No regrets. No lists. No wants, needs, ought tos. No doubt, guilt, frustration, anger, fear. No joy, thankfulness, praise, forgiveness. No prayers. No thoughts or emotions. Nothing. Be nothing.

Problem: How does one clear one’s mind? Solution: Practice.
Problem: Once one’s mind is clear, what then? Solution: Expect nothing.
Problem: And if I fall asleep? Solution: Then sleep.
Problem: And if nothing happens? Solution: Embrace nothingness. It is a rare and precious treasure. When nothing exists then one truly stops moving. Mysteries unfold, wisdom ever so lightly seeps in and the essence of being intertwines self and spirit. It is a bud that blooms when the time is nigh.

Christmas Cruise Second edit 8-11But first, stop moving.

I am not wise. I have no answers or solutions. I seek that which I do not know, while fearing the unknown. It is a curious dichotomy, drawn to an abstruse glow, yet wary of the inviting flame. Flickering, sparks, heat, burn, light, warmth; mesmerizing beyond coals, crackling beckoning, secrets rise in plumes and wisps of smoke merging and fading into nothingness; gasping for air to survive.

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About richardandlisa

Richard is the photographer, typically. Lisa is the writer, typically. We've both been know to cross-genre...is that allowed?
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