Present Over Perfect

(Grace) #1

never have imagined.
Whatever thing you think you can’t do without: alcohol,
shopping, that number on a scale. That car, that secret habit,
that workout. The pills, the lies, the affair. The money, the
success, the cutting. Whatever it is that you clutch onto with
angry fists, that you grab like a lifeline, when you release
that thing, when you let it go, that’s when you’ll hear the
notes between the music. That’s when you’ll feel the
groove, the rhythm you were made to feel, that you’ve
covered over a thousand times with noise and motion and
fear and all the things.
When you hear it, you’ll realize it sounds a lot like your
own heartbeat, the rhythm of God, of life, pumping in your
chest, the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard.
The morning I decided to dive even more deeply and
honestly into the practice of silence, I bought myself a
necklace with a tiny star on a fine gold chain. Something
about the star felt meaningful to me—delicate, powerful,
rising, constant, lighting the dark in a small but glittering
way. Several times a day, my fingers find the tiny star
around my neck, a symbol of doing something difficult and
valuable.
I went to see my counselor, to talk to him once again
about laying down all the things that keep me full and
frantic and distracted and exhausted. He said he was proud
of me, and at the end of our time together, he said, “What
you’re saying reminds me of The Journey—remember that
poem?”

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