Nothing to Fix. Just Look!

What is paid attention is what is noticed. “Notice” is derived from gnosis. What is noticed is what is known. What is known is what is, is what you are. To know is to be, I am. Why attend to “the problem,” when the whole world shows its perfection? We have only to pay attention, to notice.

The Whole Revealed, Wherever the Eyes Land

Every single thing is revealing a glimpse of the whole. crossection: blade of grass

 

 

 

 

 

From the sublime to the ridiculous; tumblr_mlojfd7B101qz702oo1_500

 

 

 

 

 

 

from that which is too tiny to be seen to that which is too colossal to look at directly; nuclear-banner

and from the terrible to the precious.6cd1e9b02ecdd84ca0f7f74678278fec

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look, everywhere, with eyes willing to see the gift of this shining apparition.

magnified sand grains

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Miracle waits upon the eye that sees.Through a Child's Eye, by June Stealth

To Err is Humane

yin-yang-spring-and-autumn-gloria-di-simoneIs there an expression of man,
That isn’t allowed within this realm
Of fool and genius, boor or naïf,
the yin-yang movements,  expressions of this fleeting moment?

The full spectrum is the banquet
In which our senses are dazzled,
And where we abide, and sit with kith and kin,
Regardless of propensity or style, drunk on love.

To see thine own error as folly
Is to forgive thy neighbor,
Is to see his divinity as imminent in these eyes,
And thus fences become a quaint contrivance.

Do they not but complement
And make whole, like puzzle pieces,
As every piece must fit, as puzzlers know,
To complete the obscured picture that began as pieces?

Celebrate the dropped ball,
The loose cannon, the missing number
In your equations, and you are free
Of distinctions, and the disability of striving for perfection.

In this freedom, all are set free,
And none are left out when out is in,
When error cannot be found in the lilt of birdsong
Or in humanity’s diverse and magnificent plumage.

The poet is imperfectly perfect, and dies,
In verse and verisimilitude,
But poetry is heard only once,
Never wrong–before it fades, and ceases into silence.