The Happiness of Allowing
Wanting nothing, with no particular place to go, she relaxed into the moment. And no sooner had she opened her mind to it, allowing it to sing whatever song it would sing, than it swept her away with its beauty.
What could have seemed so ordinary and been so easily overlooked appeared now as if it were a magnificent work of art. Every shape, every shade, the juxtaposition of forms and textures, light and shadow, motion and stillness detailed its perfection.
She was so transfixed by it that, for several moments, she was unable to move. Nor did she want to. If she dared take a step, perhaps it would disappear. Perhaps the veil that had kept her from seeing it would fall again, casting her back into the mundane awareness from which she had so miraculously awakened.
And as she stood there, spellbound, allowing the majesty of it to pour into her mind, its perfection took on even greater depth. A wondrous soundtrack began to play—the rustling of the brittle leaves, the calls of birds, the hum of a passing car, the distant sheiks of children at play. She felt the warmth of the morning’s bright sun on her cheek, the caress of the soft air that carried the scents of autumn.
She breathed it in deeply, and felt the flow of the air inside her body, carrying with it the sunlight and the birdsong and the fragrance of the leaves. And as she exhaled, molecules that had been inside her, a part of her very being, carried something of her to the trees and the birds and the sky. And, seeing at once how she was a part of the perfection, she laughed in sheer joy.
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