bruce merrill

The morning you stopped waiting for it to mean something is the morning it began to. Ordinary was the disguise the sacred was wearing.

Not a posture. Not a practice. Just the absence of the thing you'd been doing without noticing.

Not made. Not summoned. Already here, the way the sky is already there above the weather.

Something in you the day cannot reach. Watch closely. It was never the part that was tired.

Not narrow. Not steep. The path was wide enough for all of you. You were the one walking sideways.

Not what you do for someone. What stops happening between you when you stop performing the version of yourself you think they want.

Not a place. Not an arrival. The recognition that you never actually left.

What you already know is what's keeping the new thing out. The cup has to be poured before it can be filled.