The world offers itself to us in every moment, quietly, patiently, soft in its tenderness, savage in its extravagant beauty.
Blue mountains painted on the rim of a pale winter sky. Stiff-fingered branches, all thrust and assertion, reaching, grabbing, swallowing air and sunshine.
What will it take, to raise our eyes past our selfies and mirrors and incessant judgments? The selves we are so bent on improving are miracles of ear-whorls and breathing skin, purely pumping hearts, voices cracked and broken or in perfect pitch. Orbs of vision, conglomerate communities of cells, each cell a galaxy, spinning love.
The world we are so bent on improving has its own heartbeat and pulse, its own soul moulding its perfection, moment to moment, through the agency of our hearts and voices, our willing hands and holy vision.
Let it be. First, let it be. Miracles cannot be improved upon, only nurtured, only celebrated, only given what they need to unfurl, flourish and enfold.
Deep contentment is the ground from which evolutionary harmony springs, restoring all-that-is into its true shape and form.
Let the spinning wings of your personhood soar in the winds of organic change, sans ambition, sans anything but praise and humble service, heart to heart, miracle to miracle.