This too.

This too, then, is the practice.

This rabid, rancid, breakneck hurricane of stress. This world that keeps on coming. The onslaught, the beat, and the passion that rises.

This too is the practice. To stand and bear witness, and observe my racing mind. To honour each wearying moment, with presence.

Complete presence.

To notice even when the mind scampers away (to tanned limbs, sunny shorelines and endless nothingness). To watch the Compulsive Planner almost livid with excitement and hysteria. So much to plan, so many endless reams- I could stay here forever simply planning my future. I'd never reach the end, moments being lived before I've even finished the planning of them.

This is the practice. To not run from this.

To live. All of this.

Such a curious mix, this season, like all of life. Bitter and sweet, and always hilarious, if you can just find the right vantage to watch it from.

I'm so addicted to living.

The succulent ridiculousness of it all.