I asked the creek to tell me about time

I sat next to Brownhill Creek on a calm, Sunny, autumn afternoon in meditation, and asked it to tell me about time. This is what it told me.

What you see, and what is, may be two different things.

Whatever you see on the surface depends on where you shine a light.

It reflects things that hide its depth, and in its depths are other things. Usually you can’t see them.

Time reflects real things, and imagined things, and things of which you are afraid.

There is no start or end. Instead, both states of beginning and ending exist simultaneously.

Sometimes it expands. Sometimes it contracts.

Sometimes it is rippled, circular, spiral, broken.

It bounces between, around and over decisions and moments.

It captures.

It breathes.

It drowns.

It lives.

It gives life and it takes life. All life. Always.

What it looks like is not necessarily what it is. What it looks like is not necessarily what it carries.

It just is.

Things come into it, and they are absorbed or carried, and then they get put down somewhere else.

Forces interact with it, scattering the surface, telling you it is a thing, or impacts by a thing, when it is not.

It just is.

And when you sit with it, you become it; your language is unnecessary.

 

Image courtesy denisbin. See the original on Flickr.

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