On'The Process'

Quenching our thirst for longing.

To seek a destination,
A place to arrive at,
Is a never-ending pursuit.

A fruitless and exhausting one.

For as you are about to land,
It will drift away,
Like a ship over the horizon.

Like repelling magnets,
The goal remains out of arm's reach,
Just a few steps ahead.

And to counter this,
People will say,
"The process is what matters most".

And to this I say,
"You're mistaken"

The process is all there is.

Destinations are figments of our imagination,
Things we hope will turn out a certain way,
Predictions.

A feeling we seek,
A longing for something else,
Other than this very moment.

We grasp,
We cling,
We dream.

We cannot be here,
Where our feet are,
When we are in the thoughts of what's to come.

We seek 'presence'
A state of openness,
Of calm tranquillity.

We seek to surrender,
To clear our mind,
To have more peace.

To have something else,
Other than the mystical, random and beautifully spontaneous,
Now.

We stretch the future out on a time line,
Our present moment neatly tucked in the middle,
With past firmly behind us.

But again,
We are mistaken,
Both the past and future,
Are now.

Those dreams and desires,
The nostalgia and the pain,
The memories of times gone by.

The thought of a friend from years ago,
A longing to travel one day,
To see the world.

They are thoughts,
Cognitive events,
Formations within our mind.

They are happening right now,
In this moment.

And in the process,
We disregard what's in front of us,
Our sense of clarity blunted and dulled.

We miss the inherent beauty in the most mundane of moments.

The delicate sway of a leaf,
As it rides the breeze,
Twirling and twisting towards it's new home.

The wonders of a bird,
Gliding through the infinite sky,
Seemingly at one with the clouds.

The babble of a stream,
A symphony created,
By rock and water coming together in harmony.

We don't need to seek the process,
It's already happening around us.

The darkest of nights,
Makes way for the warmest of days.

The cold bleak winter,
Makes way for the blossom and growth of spring.

The experience of life,
Makes way for the stillness of death.

The longing we feel,
Makes way for the realisation we are already home.

We belong to the process.