Everything is movement, nothing is static. Either fast or slow or very fast or very slow. We live on a narrow band within an infinitely complex orchestration of movement. Not a band really but slowness enough for objects to appear.

There are no “things” that aren’t movements and no movements not seamlessly connected to other movements. A table is a slow movement, clouds move in shape and distance. Sunlight flashes across the sky at dawn too fast to see. The one who looks constantly changes in thoughts, feelings, never entirely the same even in a single day. Like a landscape, brightened and darkened, cooled, warmed by Spring showers, within and without are two wings of this bird of being.

Nouns then point to illusions. Nouns like success, a something requiring a stopping point, it’s a dream fulfilled or unfulfilled, not something that life has in it’s living. Nouns like me and you point to illusions whereas being cannot be located in a time or place as its ever on the move, concealed within the illusion of self and other.

Learning has its life in movement. Diplomas, degrees, awards float like yesterdays glossy magazines in a flooded river. Learning is the river and the tree roots that draw life to green cells that meet the sun. Learning has no end, no status. The learned live in the past of movement. The learner is free of the bookends of past and future, rides in the winds and rivers of discovery without end. When we identify we choose the way of the minds death. Society has conditioned us to many such deaths. We’re afraid of the rivers that we are – rivers within rivers. Identities aren’t then moving functions but pools becoming ever more stagnant as we age.

Movement, as it is, can’t be known. It would need to be stopped or sliced up. What is left of it in language, in thought, in mathematics? It does not live in the delay our knowledge needs. To know is not to have anything actual or living in hand, to be in touch can’t be pinned down.

At best, as David Bohm used to say, knowledge can be coherent, faithful to what takes place. All this great work of the human mind is to evolve multiple perspectives, ways of seeing that which can never wholly be seen, yet an IS nearer to our being than the chemicals within a neuron.The mystery that cloths us, our very breath and blood, carrying us forward in renewal from the wastelands of time, is unknowable. Knowing though necessary is secondary to this explosive silence. A quiet, patient intimacy awaiting our return.

It doesn’t stop when you pull up to the curb, turn off the car, get out, walk up the stairs to the front door, turn the key, go inside, walk into the kitchen. Doesn’t stop when you go off to sleep. Neither inside nor outside, is ceaseless. At work It waits within all the recesses of the room and beyond the windows to be glimpsed in its untamed glory. The air of roadless mountains, light of ancient stars, wildness without hours or appointments floods our senses as we live walled by all these small things in a civilized day.



We have no ultimate choice in the matter however, even smalled by necessary order and compressed by concerns, we are movements within a boundless dynamic mystery. Not different from that in any way. Prone in the end to journeying, creating, unshackling. Prone also to compassion for that other with eyes, absorbing and reflecting an ancient light, is us.


thomas martin


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