With Every Breath

And though poor stones have neither
     speech nor tongue,
While active winds and streams both
     run and speak,
Yet stones are deep in admiration.

 

Take a moment today to consider the many things you are holding in the palm of your hand and how you might best play with them.

 

What do I hold in the palm of my hand?

An adult is one who has lost the grace, the freshness, the innocence of the child, who is no longer capable of feeling pure joy, who makes everything complicated, who spreads suffering everywhere, who is afraid of being happy, and who, because it is easier to bear, has gone back to sleep. The wise man is a happy child.

Has anyone else noticed how much these spaces suck now?