The banjo plucks that introduce this reflective ditty call me to attention like a meditation bell ringing: time to stop focusing on anything else. Time to focus on this, here, now.
How is it that what comes so naturally, what feels so fun and easy, can feel so difficult? Words collect themselves inside me, like worms in the compost heap of images and experiences. But sometimes what’s actively happening looks almost exactly like nothing. I become impatient, wanting a name for what’s growing.
But impatience pushes playfulness away, and play makes space for what’s alive.
How can we playfully make space for the good things growing in ourselves and in others?