sitting at the Columbus Circle as cars and people pass by. every single person has a story, perhaps an inner narrative, and also a narrative by everyone who views them. mirrors within mirrors within mirrors, and all the viewers seeing something at least slightly different. you can see the lightness of being and the heaviness of being all in the faces and bodies of each. perhaps awareness passing through and living through each body independent of viewers.
it is upto each person to create their world with view. i walked over to Central Park and as i am sitting at a beautiful fountain and pond, i look around. many other bodies seemingly very happy while others worried. a couple fighting, a male body making angry gestures and shouting and a female body crying. some kid ecstatic about the ducks stomping around. another group of teenagers gently teasing each other. it appears that no matter where one is and what they are experiencing, a prison cell or a park, New York or Dhaka or a village in Europe, the stories and what is capable of passing through us is the same.
as an uninvolved bystander, i can easily tune in and out of the narratives. i can smile at the kid, be disturbed by the fighting, and i can zone out of the storyline and look at the sky and the trees and the pond and the duck and the turtles doing their own thing.
the realization that this spaciousness around us exists, always exists, and we can see it if we can slow down and give space around the narrative, woke me up instantly, like lifting away a veil from light that was always there. the brilliance and the life and awareness in all that is sprung into life, or no i sprung back into awareness that is always there. so vivid and powerful and sad and beautiful and it is all of that at the same time.
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the paradox of being 