I am slowly perusing Dag Hammarskjold's wonderful book Markings.
I offer some pieces to touch.
A blown egg floats well, and sails well on every puff of wind - light enough for such performances, since it has become nothing but shell, with neither embryo nor nourishment for its growth. "A good mixer."
Without reserve or respect for privacy, anxious to please - speech without form, words without weight. Mere shells.
A sunny day in March. Within the birch tree's slender shadow on the crust of snow, the freezing stillness of the air is crystallized. Then - all of a sudden - the first blackbird's piercing note of a call, a reality outside yourself, the real world. All of a sudden - the Earthly Paradise from which we have been excluded by our knowledge.
He came with his little girl. She wore her best frock. You noticed what good care she took of it. Others noticed too - idly noticed that, last year, it has been the best frock on another little girl.
In the morning sunshine it had been festive. Now most people had gone home. The balloon sellers were counting the day's takings. Even the sun had followed their example, and retired to rest behind a cloud. So the place looked rather bleak and deserted when he came with his little girl to taste the joy of Spring and warm himself in the freshly polished Easter sun.
But she was happy. They both were. They had learned a humility of which you still have no conception. A humility which never makes comparisons, never rejects what there is for the sake of something "else" or something "more."
Now that's the way to enter the day. I look out on a mix of fog and sun. Who knows what each minute will bring as to this play of moisture moving naturally in and out? I am looking forward to a day-long workshop of Sensory Awareness, and entering into my breath with the same play as the wind and fog.