A teacher asks his student, as they sit on the grass in contemplation: “What do you see?”
The student, with a furrow in his brow, confused as to why so simple a question, responds knowingly: “A field.”
The teacher shakes his head. “No, look closer.”
“Some grass and some trees?” responds the student, grasping at straws.
“But what else?”
Silence passes for a few seconds, and the student gradually becomes angry with his confusion. “I don’t know! Just tell me!”
The teacher gives a patient sigh and quietly gestures to a tree. “I see sun-soaked leaves breathing life in. The hard, dark skin of a being so much larger than we, much older and wiser than we know. A hundred twisting arms holding birds, creatures more free than we can comprehend because we’re stuck in the mindset of ‘fields’.”
The student took this in for a moment, then sat silently, as if that was all he could say.
The teacher continued, “Start with that,” he sighed, a quiet encouragement, “and all else will follow.”
From birds to tissues to cells to atoms, everything you see is made of stardust. Breathe it in. Know with every breath that you are inhaling the art and grace of the delicate universe, and try, if you can, to see the beauty in that. Gravity didn’t work this hard to make something you only glance at.
