I went on a run with my dog the other day. It was drizzling and the clouds were rolling through he mountains. I couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. That is the real stuff of life– these are the days that make me.
They make me because they are a soft reminder that all is how it ought to be. Everything is at once carrying uniquely along without our influence, and at the whim of the power our minds possess. I’m looking down at my body, moving in one sweeping motion and then the next. It is, too, as it ought to be. There is nothing that is inherently in need of fixing. Just as water flows or rocks crumble, my limbs, my hair, my nose, my body, exist without my influence.
To look down at this exquisite jumble of muscle and bone and view it with contempt seems like a waste. This is not to say that most of my days don’t include some form of self loathing. Here, though, alone on a mountain, hidden away from prying eyes (or the more crushingly critical force, my own eyes viewing a reflection,) I am only able to watch my hands swing joyfully back and forth as I prance after the pup.
These mountains make me. They make me full and fallen away from the part of myself that thinks perfect is any better than anything else. Do the rocks ask to be perfect?
Not for a second, and look how magnificent they are. Look at just how lost you can become for craving to witness all their wonder.