Let the words come. They hold treasures. They are the little indicators of the Quiet one you are. You think you keep repeating yourself, but what you are doing is saying what matters to you that you have forgotten. You come to your writing with unkindness for your self. You write from a judgment that makes it hard for the words to appear, they feel unwelcome. You see yourself through critical eyes. You are comparing with the world and you cannot come out as being in anyway as you think you should be.

But you need not be so critical. In fact, you need not be critical of yourself in the least. There is nothing to criticize. You were not created to be going through an existence of criticism. Too soon you forgot to wonder where had the gentle life gone. When you found yourself in the world and heard what it was doing you allowed it into yourself and it worked its way in you to seem to become you. Unkindness is what you heard, now let it go away to be a thing that never happened. Let go of this tendency in you toward your self. Write with a sense of welcoming what comes from you. Write with a sense of welcoming life and each day that newly begins. Be welcoming of your mind and its ability to tell you wonders. Be welcoming of the smallest activity of human life that you have come to enjoy. Be welcoming of the fun you have with others. Be welcoming of the insight that comes so readily when you let it.

Life eagerly waits to bring you its treasures. It eagerly waits to show you the fresh. It eagerly wishes to bestow upon you all the good that resides in it. And all you need do … is allow. Welcome it by trusting in its silent and invisible presence hiding in your thinking as a living thought; in your feelings as conviction; in your human life as hope.

Allow this inner splendor to enable your movement through the world. You need not work hard to make life work, do not interfere with its working. Imagine its presence in the quietest possible way. No other thing need be done by you, even now, when so much has appeared to go wrong. But nothing has gone wrong. Nothing has become lost to you. The wonders of Life are the gift you welcome from yourself.

I am, she said. She said it softly, as if it were a secret. Her secret. Meant to be kept a secret because it was such a sacred thing.

Well, it is a sacred thing and she knew this in the depth of herself where she said these words for in her world true things were hidden. Two little words. Only two little words and yet something came from them that was so unspeakably vast, so deep, so far-reaching. And so close, that she could no longer exclude herself from life. From herself.

I am, she said, and her world changed as she found the changeless within it.

By the side of the path to my house is a tree that took root overnight. I woke one morning to find it standing in the soft glow of early dawn. I instantly knew it had always been there and in this knowing, I felt distances collapse.

Is knowing more true than sight? Are my eyes slow to see what is already here? Perhaps my eyes sleep while great surges of energies quietly create molecules for time and space to show. What precious invisible impulses bring this world to visibility?

The tree is real for I have climbed it. I sit on its branch and I feel the roughness of bark touch my skin and leave a mark. I breathe its buds of fragrance in Spring and taste its fruit in Summer.

Why did the tree come? Who is this creature of such stillness that shares my world with me? Who is a Tree? I ask this cautiously because I am almost afraid to be answered. I live in a world where deep questions are not asked and true answers not believed in. I’ve come to feel silly myself in asking them. Still, the person I am wonders about a lot of things thought not important. I sense my happiness and my sanity depend on keeping my wonderment alive.

Gathered in my pockets are the questions of all my hopes and dreams. I know that life is not mysterious. The mystery is that I prefer to stand in darkness never reaching in my pockets for the treasure of questions waiting there. The answer comes as a question, after all. I exist to ask wonderful questions about trees and many other things.

To begin anew was what she wanted. She began with one gesture outward, but the real movement had taken place an instant before in her heart. She had been listening to her heart. It was always saying something. It was speaking in her. That was how she knew she was alive and cared for.

She knew all kinds of things as she let herself receive the murmurs that kept flowing from somewhere within her. They were small murmurs, gently felt, not very noticeable. What she noticed most was her desire to hear them. She knew there was something to hear, something to be listening to. She had gotten into the habit of listening outwardly and this had created confusion in her. So now, today, this minute, as she sat down to write she said, I will listen. I will let it come to me this awareness of the thing I am. I need to know who I am for I am not the world.

It was surprising to her to find that there were words at the ready. She felt a slight pain in her wrist and hand as she began, but she knew that many things existed to distract her from the words that come from the Wordlessness that was waiting to tell her all she longed to know. To hear herself was all that mattered at any time, today was as good a time as any other except that it was in fact the best time, being the only one imbued with power.

The now of reality was this tiny moment squeezed in between the noises from a dream that took itself very seriously. Oh yes, she had succumbed to the noise. Falling flat on her face out there was the greatest gift to be given. She knew she had simply stumbled out of her peace. But peace was here. She could feel it. It knew all about her as only It could. How well It knew her. How well It upheld her. How well It conceived of a life for her. Her desire to let out all that It knew of her was the pressure she was constantly feeling. Such great pressure that felt like illness, but it was not. It was health wanting freedom from being cooped up in ignorance and fear.

Don’t think, write. Write to receive what is waiting to be known from the inner room where all things have their beginning.

Don’t think, know. It is in unfurling the sail of the Self, that the wind of Knowing moves the human life to find its wisdom.

Don’t think, trust. Why impose on things that are meant to come spontaneously? There is that which can only become apparent in the moment that is freely open, unplanned, unconcerned about.

Don’t think, have. It is already here. It has been given before Time began. All is present in the present. No searching. No waiting. Given. Known. Done. A new expression enhanced from a truth living in silence waiting to be heard.

Don’t wish, be.