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    House of Stories

    Most days I go outside my house of stories to listen to the creek to greet the oak lit by the morning sun And my heart breaks open Wide open in the sheer joy of being alive and the ecstatic remembering of who we really are.

    There are many doorways leading from the house of stories - the house of who did what and when, of what must be done, of thoughts that wind round and round while the world of miracles goes on beneath our noses, between our toes. A beautiful piece of music that stirs you to tears, that's one. The laughter of a child, a fairytale. Watching the light grow on the faces of the trees, giving oneself over completely to the chorus of sounds - human and not.

    This place outside of me and you, past and future, this is the place where life is happening, unfolding, breaking and reaching. This is the place of enchantment, of absolute, utter ecstatic aliveness.

    My human ancestors used to live in this place, able to hear the voices of the whispering world, so I have learned. Then they built a house of stories, taught children to live in them, to fear the truth, in which we are so small so fleeting so beautiful. Like everything else.

    I hope to live outside all my brief beautiful fleeting life. But often I find myself back inside, wondering how I got back here so soon.

    And so I practice. I go and I sit. I listen, I open the doors and greet the world around me, so glad to know the stream, the vines. One day, perhaps, I will not practice anymore...the doorways will lose their hinges...unable to close to life streaming all around and through it. And I'll be home.

    Come home with me, will you? To the song of the red bird, to the black of the mud, to a heart that explodes open with the morning sun.

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