Friday, May 15, 2015

The quacking of a thousand ducks

The body cries inertia. The false death of sleep is so tempting, so comfortable, but life is about movement. Life is of the soul, life is of giving. Heal thyself and then begin to heal the world.

Clear the cobwebs - clear the clutter - find the surface of the planet. OK, at least find the surface of your desk. Find the nuggets of clear thought that you buried in the clutter. Line up your ducks in a row and see how they quack.

With the clutter of his mind all pushed into a corner, he saw the whole picture laid out before him, the way it could be were the ducks in a row instead if scattered here and there, each quacking insistently to be attended. "Here!" "No, here!" "No, here!" cried the ducks, and the "there" slipped from his grasp.

"So much to do, so little time." Fie. The time is plenty. The need is understood. The ducks push to the front, each demanding to be heard. But all that is actually heard is the quacking of a thousand ducks.

He closed the door, so that only he and the dog were in the room. He closed his eyes and took deep, deliberative breaths. He cleared his mind, thinking nothing, listening but not processing.

One of the ducks poked tentatively into his consciousness, and he pushed it back. And another duck. And another duck.

They refused to line up in a row.

And so he accepted the chaos. And it was almost as good as fighting it. And it was better than fighting it.

It is what it is. He was where he was. Wherever he went, in fact, he was there.

From that day on, the ducks still refused to line up. But they cooed for him.

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