“If I repeat myself, then so does spring.”— Rumi
I too may repeat myself, in my writings here.
It’s not a failing. It is simply that these writings and poems all arise from the same place, and all, in essence, speak about the same one thing.
The limitless resource of silence to be found at the heart of our being.
In this place, where nothing ends, and nothing ever began, let the seasons come, come, come…
Autumn leaves wither and fall, become compost for spring flowers.
What died? What lives? Nothing leaves this flow.