Snow is falling—big flakes, silent, drifting. Watching from the warmth of the house, I don’t need to do anything else. Just looking. Just being. Each flake wavers slightly, moving as if uncertain, not falling straight down but adjusting to invisible currents. I wonder—do the bigger flakes fall slower than the smaller ones? I watch and try to see.
And in that watching, something shifts. There is nothing but the snow. Nothing but the effortless movement, the way each flake catches the light, the way they fill the air—not just descending but appearing, present, alive. A quiet joy moves through me, not a thought, not a memory, but something deeper—something like sap rising in a tree, something that has always been there, flowing.
The mind, of course, wants to branch outward. It remembers childhood snow days—no school, endless play. It remembers later years, when snow meant icy roads, traffic, obligations. It reaches further, tracing connections, seeing how everything moves together—how lifting one seashell shifts the whole ocean, how awareness itself rides a Möbius strip, looping through light and shadow, shifting perspectives, never stopping.
But these are branches, leaves—extensions of the movement, not the movement itself. The real current, the real life of this moment, is here in the watching.
And as I watch, something deepens. The snow is not just outside—it is inside me, or rather, there is no inside and outside. The watching itself dissolves the separation. The snow falls, and I fall with it, gently carried by the same unseen currents. The stillness is not still at all—it is alive, flowing, full.
There is no need to grasp this feeling, no need to hold it in place. It is not something to own, only something to meet, again and again, as naturally as breath. The snowflakes do not try to be snowflakes; they simply fall, dissolving into the ground, into water, into air, into the cycle that has no beginning or end.
This is the same current that moves through thought, through sensation, through the body, through time itself. It rises in trees, in tides, in the slow unfolding of a flower. It animates everything, including this moment of quiet happiness, this silent act of seeing.
Spiritual Gravity 