The human body is 99.999999999 percent empty space. Likewise, the cosmos is 99.999999999 percent empty space. Perhaps you have noticed what happens when we look up, when we notice space. The mind stops.
How does a single cut flower, so still, silent and surrendered, convene the attention of an entire room, then ‘float’ that room with beauty and aliveness and love? Well, not by doing anything.
When we are conscious, we’re consistent. When we are unconscious, we’re predictable.
It is a thin and inconsequential book, the one that success writes. Failure, by comparison, is a playwright’s dream—dark, depthless and quiveringly quiet, like Robert Frost’s woods or Paul Simon’s blacked-out bathroom.
If I do not desire anything and I am not afraid of anything, then the mind is quiet. Not asleep or chewing its cud, but alert, watchful and ready. Like a top-of-class majordomo.