Nature's Place

There aren’t any, disregarded, unless I personalise. That is ‘I’ disregard something as a form of exclusion. Otherwise everything is loved by something. And loves in turn. Whatever form that takes. The loved and the loving, all is love in the mystery of no-thing. And all are relentlessly drawn to that union. Not as a group or gang, hive or flock, which has its place, but in being, undivided from the wondrous intelligence before the separation into me and not began. Or begins, since the beauty of being is now not then.

It’s why everything dies, and dies into the being of the beautiful Earth where all our existential forms begin to form, and before that still where no form is.

Sort of. ((:

Who cares, really? In the end, as in the beginning, the nuts and bolts are in meditation – on the pure sensation and the practise of being – no-existential-thing.

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This creature came in under the door and ran frantically round the room until it exhausted itself. I suspect the surface of carpet is the equivalent of walking on sand to an insect, not easy. So I picked it up, gave it some water, posed it for a few shots and sent it on its way.

Mole Cricket it’s called. They dig into the earth with those big strong looking claws. And do whatever they do under the earth. I don’t know and can’t imagine but what all creatures do.

The same things you and I do. Did you imagine something else?

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