Winter Stream Reflections
...breaking from stillness.
January 17th, 2011
The voice of a stream is in the sounds of rushing water.
It often lays quiet, as a sleeping child.
Wordless...alllowing us to listen to our own selves as we watch quietly.
The stream does not say 'make me move'. ...it waits through winter...one of natures 'diciplines'...for spring!
Then it rushes to freedom, crashing over rocks.... brushing past the trees... breaking free from stillness.
Open and unyeilding and having found freedom ... it can once again be still.
I sometimes feel as if my spirit is a stream.
And sometimes it is stilled.
But I go to my martial arts class... and in the middle of the clean wood floor...held deeply by the motion of disciplined form, ...I am rushing over rocks.... brushing past the trees... breaking free from stillness. ... open and unyeilding. ... finding my freedom.
Winter Stream Reflections
...breaking from stillness.
January 17th, 2011
The voice of a stream is in the sounds of rushing water.
It often lays quiet, as a sleeping child.
Wordless...alllowing us to listen to our own selves as we watch quietly.
The stream does not say 'make me move'. ...it waits through winter...one of natures 'diciplines'...for spring!
Then it rushes to freedom, crashing over rocks.... brushing past the trees... breaking free from stillness.
Open and unyeilding and having found freedom ... it can once again be still.
I sometimes feel as if my spirit is a stream.
And sometimes it is stilled.
But I go to my martial arts class... and in the middle of the clean wood floor...held deeply by the motion of disciplined form, ...I am rushing over rocks.... brushing past the trees... breaking free from stillness. ... open and unyeilding. ... finding my freedom.