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Window Gazing...

Looking outside my window I see a row of heavy clouds drifting horizontally across the tops of the hills casting long shadows on the dense canopy of trees. Palm leaves sway from side to side, faded Tibetan prayer flags flap and curl, and the tendrils of my hanging hoya (of which I'm incredibly proud) dance vigorously in each gust of wind. A dense grouping of hot pink bougainvillea blooms catch my eye. I think about how we just painted our front door this vibrant hue by colour matching the flowers. I like that I am the kind of person that does things like this, but I tell myself not to be too proud.

I close my eyes. I can hear the 'shhhh shhhhhh' sounds of leaves brushing past leaves, the low humming of the pool filter, a magpie calling, the cooing of a spotted dove and a background symphony of other birds I can't identify. Somewhere towards the mountain a motorbike revs and breaks the rhythm of this peaceful lullaby. A mid morning moment of magic broken by an enthusiastic rider of metal machinery. Who can blame him? And why should I assume the rider is a he?

Each day I am becoming more resigned to these reveries, basking in long moments of window gazing and unfurling thoughts. This mode of being feels familiar, and I am moved by it. This slowness, this immersion deep into the present moment is something I have been working towards since the world was put on pause. I was going to tell you why and how but I can't think of a way to explain the nuanced knowings of my existential reckonings in a satisfactory way. All I know is that there is value in returning to stillness throughout the day, there is value in examining the world more closely and in allowing a stream of consciousness to flow through you to wherever the wind carries it.

I have always been a daydreamer, but whether it's the ever invasive role of technology in our lives, the rise of 24 hour news cycles, or the great divisions rising up between humanity, over the last decade it has felt hard to sustain the life of a window-gazer. But these days I find myself returning to daydreams and I see more than ever the great foundations of hope, strength and resilience that are formed from moments of quiet observation and contemplation. There is so much noise in this world but how can we be informed if we never listen to the wind, the birds, the ocean or the trees, or to the people who know how to speak to them? Truly, how do we know anything if we are unwilling to listen and speak to the earth?

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