Last week I cried from a deep longing, a longing overflowing with the fullness of the present moment.
It started from the personal, an ache to go deeper, to resolve the imaginary vectors of cause and effect in my mind.
But then it flowered into the universal, a longing to share the nothingness — alive and complete — of the sunshine on the leaves, of the empty space between the fence and yard, of the delicate knots in the blind cords, of the love charging the longing itself, with the entire world.
And the recipe felt complete; nothing else need be bought, nothing else need be mixed in. It was ready to come out of the oven and be.