In meditation today, a few words from Adyashanti stuck with me: riding the wave of what is already happening, accepting the inevitable immediately.
I noticed how little of the next second I can actually change. Even the impulse to do something differently is already downstream of causes I didn’t create. Like a river approaching a rock: the water closest to it shifts, the rest keeps moving straight, and somehow the boat feels the pressure before it even arrives.
At Yogaville, I see this sooner—the rise and fall of emotions, the arc of a conversation, connection and disconnection. And I begin to see myself as more than the driver: the reins, the horse, the road, the other traveler. Sometimes control is tightening. Sometimes it’s softening, widening, letting the flow show itself.
Then a new image came: a surfboard. Life isn’t something I push against; I’m carried. The wave passes under me, through me. Not passive, not controlling—just riding. Space between impulse and action, bow drawn but not released, swing begun but not finished. Thought drops out of the way.
Outside my window, the branches are outlined in delicate snow, the birds gone for the moment. Nothing moves. And yet—the wave is still here. Sometimes movement helps: a basketball arcing across the court, attention carried along effortlessly. Other times, it’s subtler: watching a still scene, feeling the flow in the watching itself, buoyant, airy, rising without effort.
Redbird hops onto the chair. Maybe he sees me, maybe not. Tomorrow he’ll be back. The finches, sparrows, catbirds, doves, even a red-tailed hawk once—all come and go.
The wave doesn’t belong to motion or stillness. It’s in the allowing of what appears and disappears. Riding what’s already moving—whether snow, bird, or thought—becomes effortless.
Even when nothing moves outside, the wave continues. Not because I’m creating it. Not because I’m holding it. But because I’ve stopped stepping off.
Spiritual Gravity 