by Michael Maciel
Meditation is paint drying. It is grass growing. It is the surface of water on a windless day.
It is the body of mind, the mind of body—the act of being without doing.
It is deep, dreamless sleep while being awake.
It is the end of time.
It is the space between breaths, the space between thoughts, the space between heartbeats. It is the space between everything and everything.
“Lift the stone and there you will find me. Split the wood and I am there.”