We have become strangers to the things we see,
Lost in the thoughts of what things ought to be.
We name every mountain, measure the sea,
Yet never quite touch what it means to be.
We draw little maps of the world in our minds,
Assigning our meanings to all that we find.
We measure the distance, calculate space,
But never experience the thing face to face.
We speak of the ocean, its depth and its tide,
But never feel waves as they roll and subside.
We study the stars, calculate their light,
But rarely look upward and marvel at night.
We know all the names of the flowers that grow,
The chemistry, structure, the things we can know.
But somewhere between all the facts we collect,
We lose the experience we should not neglect.
And chatter, chatter, inside of the head,
A thousand conversations, endlessly fed.
Thought following thought, like a river of noise,
Drowning the silence beneath all the words.
We think about living instead of being alive,
We think about love instead of letting it thrive.
We think about happiness, where it might be,
While happiness quietly passes unseen.
We turn every moment to something to explain,
Analyze pleasure, dissect all our pain.
We question the sunrise, the clouds and the rain,
Until even wonder becomes something mundane.
But what is a sunset before it has a name?
What is a fire before someone claims
To understand everything burning within,
To measure its heat, its color, its skin?
The word is not water. The word is not sky.
The thought of a bird is not watching it fly.
The map is not land, and the menu's not food,
And knowing the recipe isn't the mood.
We build our illusions with symbols and signs,
Mistaking the numbers for nature's designs.
We count every second, divide every day,
And wonder why life keeps slipping away.
We say we are separate, distinct and alone,
A body, a name, an identity known.
But where does the self begin or end?
Is it something we are, or something we pretend?
Perhaps all our thinking has hidden the view,
A curtain of language obscuring what's true.
We stand in the garden, surrounded by green,
Yet live in the thoughts of what green should mean.
And even this question, this search for release,
Can become another disturbance to peace.
For thinking of silence is not being still,
And seeking the truth can become just another will.
So let the mind wander, then let it be still,
No need to command it, no need for the will.
Let the rain simply fall, let the wind simply blow,
Without needing to name what we already know.
Let the bird be a bird, let the river run free,
Without asking what either was meant to be.
Let the clouds cross the heavens, let the sunlight appear,
Without asking the mind to explain why they're here.
For life isn't waiting inside some great thought,
Nor hidden in answers that wisdom has sought.
It isn't a puzzle, a problem, a plan,
Or something to capture and understand.
Perhaps we have mistaken the finger for the moon,
The notes for the music, the words for the tune.
We have studied the dance, analyzed every part,
But forgotten the dancer, the rhythm, the heart.
And what if existence is simpler than this?
Not something to solve, but something to kiss.
Not something to capture, define or control,
But something that happens beyond the mind's role.
The world doesn't need us to tell it what's real.
The earth doesn't think about how it should feel.
The ocean keeps moving, the stars carry on,
Whether we name them or whether we're gone.
And maybe the truth isn't something we find,
By searching through layers and layers of mind.
Perhaps when the chatter and commentary cease,
We discover the world was never the illusion we believed.
It was the distance between us and living,
The endless receiving, but never the giving
Of attention to all that is already here,
The ordinary miracle, perfectly clear.
So put down the map. Let the territory be.
Stop searching for life and allow yourself to see.
For the world is not what we think it might be,
And thinking of life is not living, you see.
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