QUIET SEEING

The High Life of Quiet Seeing

There comes a time, unannounced,
No trumpet, no decree.
When the world does not grow louder,
But infinitely more precise.

The wind is no longer “the wind,”
But a hand upon the cheek,
Cooler now than moments past,
Carrying stories from unseen miles.

A tree is no longer “a tree,”
But a companion of shared design.
Its veins not unlike our own.
Its patience far superior.

Grass becomes a congregation.
Each blade rising with quiet purpose,
Whispering of sunlight and soil,
Of the ancient agreement to live.

And we.
Late arrivals to understanding.
Finally see.
What was always there.

Time loosens its grip.

Hours dissolve into moments,
Moments into awareness,
Awareness into something,
That does not need a clock.

You move, perhaps.
But cannot say when,
Or why,
Or even if movement occurred at all.

You have become
Less an actor,
More a witness.

Participation.
A rare and deliberate act.
Reserved for when the soul insists:
“Yes, this matters.”

And so mostly,
You observe.

Not with detachment,
But with completion.

Anger finds no foothold here.
Urgency has lost its voice.
Even desire speaks more softly,
As if aware it is no longer in charge.

This is not emptiness.

This is arrival.

A life distilled.
Where nothing need be proven,
Nothing accumulated,
Nothing defended.

Only noticed.

Only understood.

Only.
Quietly shared.

And in this gentle awareness,
This unmeasured drifting between moments,
There comes the final, unexpected gift:

Peace.
Not as something achieved,
But as something received.

WJS