This thing about questions…there being no limit to how far one can travel (John O’Donohue)
Where does the question travel from? Where is the question going?
Me and the question going on a journey together, to the recesses of my mind, of my heart, we sit together, still and quiet
The question rolls around inside of me, most likely it begins with sharp prickly edges
Then after time, living with it, the edges smooth out, like a rock in a tumbler
Is this living, quietly into the answer, somewhere along the way (Rilke)
Not at Point A or Point B, but just somewhere, gradually, without any thinking on my part?
The question is answered, revealed, comes into focus, a reflection on the surface of stilling water.
*from a journal entry dated August 7, 2020 in the midst of the pandemic