It’s a hot summer evening in London, and my thoughts drift to the long, languid summers of my hometown, spent waiting patiently for the sun to soften its fierce gaze. Half the year has dissolved, leaving behind fragments of days flashing by like scenes from different films without any time to pause, to savour, or to make sense of them individually or collectively. Yet amidst this restless montage, two constants persist: faith, and the hope of renewal. Each of us, tiny stewards in the delicate microcosms we inhabit, must grasp gently the distant center of our being, believing fiercely in the vision we're quietly weaving for ourselves. It might not be perfect, yet it remains profoundly and beautifully our own…..
It may not be perfect, yet it is still wholly our own. Often, I’m aware of the beauty of nothingness and the vast stillness that lies beneath all things. And yet, I hope. If not, I’d be in a monastery. But here I am, still weaving, still walking, held by the quiet thread between emptiness and becoming.
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