It’s funny, isn’t it, how life tends to turn full circle sometimes?
I started this blog, Simply Here, to tell stories of Presence back in February, 2010.
Simple stories of Presence, Awareness, Being.
Somewhere along the way, as we follow twists and turns, I wanted to talk about Presence. Talk, talk, talk.
It was good to share poems and stories and thoughts about *what Presence looks like, shining through a glass dimly*.
Strangely enough, now at my primary blog Lake Superior Spirit I have winged around to tell simple stories of Presence.
Not talking about Presence (I shall keep this blog open in case I still want or need to talk about spirituality) or offering ways to realize it, but attempting to communicate its bare-bones essence.
What is Presence to me?
The rising moment.
This. Here. Now.
When a chickadee flies in our open window. The possibility of grace and freedom.
When we can barely see our hand in front of our face in the dark of the moon as we approach the mailbox. Finding your way home again.
It is not interpretation, judgment, labeling, a story.
It is the raw Presence of what arises.
It is the Beloved.
Someone just asked today, “Have you figured out how to do this? How to be present? How to live here and now?”
The answer is: Sometimes. Not always.
Very few of our species seem to be able to do it 100%.
Presence does not even care for the word “100%” because that’s the Mind attempting to quantify what can never ever be quantified because it’s too alive, magical, sparklingness.
I’ve noticed the sparklingness even within pain. It’s an aliveness vibrating, noticing, encompassing. It’s right now. You’ll never find it otherwise, even though you search until you gasp your last breath. It’s too alive to be found tomorrow.
You might wonder if Presence is always present. Is it ever absent? Not a second since your wailing birth. In fact, Presence never births or dies. It is always here, a constant song, a symphony, your entire being.
It’s that we mesmerize ourselves with stories, layers upon layers of stories, of thoughts, of feelings, of distractions, of creations, of this, of that, until Presence seems obliterated from our selves, hidden, something utterly impossible to grasp, like water running through our fingers.
If you’re interested in stories about Presence (in some ways an oxymoron, a belly laugh to even say that), visit my other blog. When writing from Presence, it feels like being engaged with the entire body, especially the solar plexus.
Presence doesn’t matter about who reads or why. It doesn’t matter about comments or interpretations. It simply IS. It offers itself just because.
Thank goodness for us that it loves so unconditionally, that it circles around an encompasses simply everything.