Nature's Place

Whose Art Was That?

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It is easy to judge, seeing things positionally, from a place of identity. Partial being. The difficulty is in extracting the value of experience, it should tell all is change while I remain I behind. It does, but it takes a long time, and long pain.

But judgement is a pernicious habit of the machine mind. Which takes its rise from the momentum of life itself, never giving up. As can be seen all around in the forms of nature, or not nature.

The force of it can be overcome. Not by opposition, but by surrender. Surrender of the force. For all force is it. This is being without the force of existence, the power behind – no more need to die.

It is this knowledge that reveals the truth in every body. Living is the art, I am the artist, in any body.

The one artist within. Being art. No exceptions.

The art of being.

*

As I came round the bend of the track in the forest there he was, or was it she. Sitting on a tendril of green overhanging the trodden path, a fly.

Blue, red eyed creature. Little beauty. Unafraid he sat, for long enough to image. Coming and going, and coming again.

A few days later there he was again. Same tendril, same fly.

He winked, I know.

Old friend.

*

Ya just gotta laugh at it all sometimes.

© Mark Berkery ……. Click any picture and click again to enlarge

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