Sometimes I feel too tired to be spiritual.  Eyes droopy, body creaking, brain dull.  This is the human part of my morning.  Stuck in mud like molasses, resistant to the Light or lightening up.  A blob that types mindlessly.  Wondering about the purpose of it all, feeling useless and small.

Doesn’t matter really.  I insist that I am as true and clear and brilliant as a patch of grass.  Or a tiny cedar with flat hand branches showing off jewels of tiny cones.  I am as firm as the moss that covers south and north of trees in these forests.

All of this in my mind’s eye as I sit in a cluttered mess of a desk.  Yet every single paper, pen, toy, cards, clips, keys, poster, old printer, stapler and tiny pencil-topping Buddhas have evolved with as much use and integrity from this green-blue earth.

I stand for every piece of paper I clip together today, honoring it as the tiniest part of the smallest bit of the most eternal me.