Understand from the first this certainty. Butterflies don’t write books, neither do lilies or violets. Which doesn’t mean they don’t know, in their own way, what they are. That they don’t know they are alive—that they don’t feel, that action upon which all consciousness sits, lightly or heavily. Humility is the prize of the leaf-world.
Yesterday, a friend and I read these beautiful words to each other. We were reminded of how our busy lives cause us to lose our innate wonder. And we were reminded to open our eyes and ears and notice how the leaves change color in autumn, to gaze with curiosity at the clouds’ designs, and to watch a squirrel as he eats an acorn. Maybe these small acts will enable us to regain our wonder, our amazement at the small miracles happening every moment, and our connection to this divine masterpiece. So let us slow down the breath, slow down the pace, and observe and remember, and revere.