This little life of mine has not been big. It has not been extraordinary. It has not been epic or grand. But, perhaps that doesn't negate its colors. Its textures. Its seasons and weather changes along with highs and lows and wrong or right turns, depending on the angle from which I choose to look at them. This life can't be denied its own humble poetry and its own profound meaning.
And, this little life of mine does not-- and has never-- existed in a bubble. This life is nothing without the infinite influences that feed it-- some giant and obvious, some hardly even microscopic but equally influential. Our brains and bodies are CONSTANTLY processing and interpreting an unceasing onslaught of information. The only thing over which we seem to have some semblance of control is how we choose to train our body and brain to utilize that information, how we choose to practice and strengthen our own awareness... or lack there of.
Just some passing go thoughts, inspired from several sources, the most obvious of which being "Living Room" talks (local, small scale talks similar to Moth) from last night.
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