Art of Coming Home

Most of us spend our days leaning forward. Reaching toward the next thing. Checking, planning, arranging, and solving for what may come. It's so habitual that we don't notice we're doing it.

There's another possibility. A return. Simply letting attention come back to itself. Regardless of what we are doing. To here. To this breath, this body, this aliveness that was never actually absent.

It feels like coming home because it is. Not to a place, but to the one who has been here all along, underneath all the reaching.

When I work on a painting, there are moments when I stop trying to make something happen. The brush still moves, but from a different place. What comes through seems more true.

What's here when you stop reaching toward what isn't?