Having just finished a week of nonstop activity, I welcome the solitude of a day without commitments. It is a dizzying reminder that I have grown over the decades; seedlings of ebullient wisdom nestle deeply in my humble dwelling of being.

Lately, I enjoy writing in the afternoons while listening to loud, hard-driving music. These rhythms overwhelm me with undiluted veracity as I struggle with a staggering fear, the shadow side of accepting “what is,” until creation flows through me, pounding to the music’s beat, arousing a twisted union with soul in an oblique detour as I surrender to creation’s bliss.

It feels strange, out of place, to acknowledge Parkinson’s flowing from cause to effect and back again. The universe’s circuitous route to insight vies for supremacy with the blackened precipice lining the road’s edge.

Harnessing imagination’s practical application of creation frees the soul to touch upon the cryptic circumstance of unconditional love playing with everyday silliness; rendering the carefree source of all suffering—stifling knowledge—into a vindication of the child’s game.

In its simplest form, this is why we are here, in this moment, at this place: to play with a child’s abandon and a sage’s wisdom, secure in the knowledge that loving-kindness awaits.

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