the way

Before we name something,
it simply is.

The sky has no need to call itself “sky.”
The river does not know it is a river.
Only we insist on names.

Names help us speak.
They do not capture what is real.

Watch a child discovering something for the first time.
There is no judgment.
No comparison.
Only seeing.

For a moment,
the world is free of labels.

Life is larger
than the words we give it.

The world teaches us to compare.

More successful.
More attractive.
More certain.
More important.

Comparison has no finish line.
There will always be someone ahead.
Someone behind.
The race continues only while we agree to run.

Notice what happens
when you set it down.

Nothing around you changes.
Something inside you grows quiet.

Enough is not something you find.
It is something you stop leaving.

The pond does not chase its reflection.

When the wind settles,
it appears on its own.

You do not have to force calm.
You only have to stop
stirring the water.

An empty bowl is useful
because it is empty.

So is a pause
in conversation.

An hour
with nothing planned.

What is open
can still receive.

Water does not argue
with the stone.

It goes around,
and keeps going.

It gathers in the low places
nobody wants.

Given time,
it carries the mountain
to the sea.

Trees in a storm.

The green branches bend,
and the wind moves through.

The dead ones do not bend.

In the morning,
they are on the ground.

A cup filled to the brim
spills on the way to the table.

A blade sharpened and sharpened
grows dull.

The work is done.

The hands rest.

Two people at a table.
One is talking.
The other is waiting to talk.

The words pass between them
like traffic.

Now and then
someone stops
and listens.

The other notices.
Their voice slows.
What they meant to say
finds its way out.

The pause afterward
is part of it.
Nothing needs to fill it.

Rain on a roof
is only noise
until someone
is listening.

You already know
how it feels
to be heard.

You have been here before.
Not this place.
This feeling.

The tide goes out
and comes back
without deciding to.

Leaves let go in autumn.
The tree stands through winter.
In spring, more leaves.

What leaves you
comes back the same way,
when it is ready.

There is nothing
to hold on to.
It knows the way home.

On tiptoe
you can see a little farther.
Your legs know
it will not last.

Take a longer stride
and walking becomes work.
The road is the same length.

A lamp does not
announce its light.
The room is bright.
Nobody asks why.

The heels come down.
The ground is still there.
It was holding you
the whole time.

Before the first thought,
the morning is already here.

Light on the wall.
A bird somewhere,
repeating itself.

The day has not asked
what you plan to do with it.

The kettle takes
as long as it takes.

One breath,
and the world
has come to the window
on its own.

By noon the day is full.
The phone.
The list.
Someone waiting for an answer.

The bird from this morning
is still singing,
or you have stopped hearing it.

Every task
arrives as the important one.
Then the next one does.

A carpenter whistles
and does not hear it.
The hands know the wood.
The wood does not hurry.

The cook tastes the soup,
adds salt,
tastes again.
There is no other way to know.

Under the bridge
the river takes the sound of the traffic
and goes on being a river.

The afternoon slows.
The coffee goes cold
beside the work
and nobody minds.

What was urgent this morning
has been done,
or it has quietly
stopped being urgent.

Somewhere in the middle of it
you look up.
The light has moved
along the wall
without anyone watching.