I was grazing for topics to write about.

Most of the time they just drop in my lap.

A cat, catting.

An insight.

A cool reflection.

Feeling good.

An embarrassment that feels funny.

Or just a sloppy train of words that want to be expressed.

There’s always something.

The sunlight on the floor, and the dust particles using it for a little party.

The tiny frog I saw this morning when I was in the forest, and its perfection.

What a client told me, spontaneously, and how they looked after realizing the depth of their observation.

Why love is here and how we know it’s here and what it actually is.

And why suffering and worrying can drop away in a heartbeat, and even if we’ve been through that process a thousand times, it still feels like it’s different, hopeless, bad.

Who I am, because, well, I don’t know.

And why it sometimes looks like I do.

How remembering works, and forgetting.

There’s always something.

Feeling good.

Feeling REALLY good.

Feeling amazing for no reason.

All these things.

But this morning I was out of sorts.

As if every time something came up, a topic, a subject, a thing to chew on, I automatically zoomed out and it stopped being interesting or worthy of exploring.

Zooming out, zooming out, zooming out more.

Writing about temporary illusory stuff is what I always do, but sometimes it feels weird and useless.

Not in a negative or dark way, but just….

I don’t know.

Zooming out, zooming out more.

Writing about Grand Stuff is what I often do too, but I still keep zooming out.

Zooming out more.

What’s left?

More zooming out.

What’s real?

This.

This is always real, even if I don’t know what it is.

Thisness.

It will never get more real.

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(Photo by @ansleycreative, for Unsplash)