It’s become a bit clearer of late. What I seek, what I’ve always sought, so much closer than ever imagined. Throughout my life there’s been a sense of something, an undercurrent that I couldn’t quite put my finger on—a constant, “What is that?”, like an apparition always in the periphery. Occasionally there’d be glimpses. I’d feel respite, then the doing and striving would start up again, the dreamed character leaving home to find home. A habit pattern entrenched so deeply. Peace, happiness and quiet—endlessly longed for—always just out of reach. Slowly dawn arises. The true message in the moments behind

Sitting quietly, where is the focus? Listening to Life or to thoughts? The mind is a miraculous tool, no doubt. But it’s also a random noise generator. It weaves fantastical dances that mesmerise and entrance. It distracts the senses, instating its machinations as truth. Beliefs laid overtop of Reality lead to searching, not Being. Pausing, listening, feeling, Life’s ongoing artwork becomes evident—a continuous creation of colours, scents, touch, tastes and sounds, ever-present in an endless array of magnificence. ∙ The sound of rain drizzling as a background canvas for varying pitches in birdsong.∙ The scent of flowers and trees, so intense