What a thing, practicing the art of living in
the present . How odd, and yet predictable , that in order to rest in the
present moment, it's necessary to let rise up so much we have been skirting
away from.
To let those things come into the present, to sit with them , feel
the sad tristesse, or the profound regret; the resentment or the grudge. The
hissy fit, just because. And then let them slowly drift away, leaving us clear for
a bit, right here .
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