I sat last night in my kitchen.
Wooden table and white wooden chairs.
Outside the wind was, for a while, stilled.
No stars.
I live in a very quiet place.
A few white houses.
Fields.
Some trees.
Peat bog.
Behind the house, beyond the hill, ocean. I hear the waves some days.
A lighthouse up the coast flashed against the clouds. One down the coast replied.
With the wind quieted, there’s silence. An occasional creak as the old house settles for the night.
Outside, in the darkness there are creatures. I can neither see nor hear them, but they’re there.
On summer nights I sat at this table and watched the swallows swoop. Then, as darkness fell, they’d change to bats.
Now, in winter, I sit and, knowing life continues out there all unseen, I, and it, coexist.
How did I end up here?
Beyond the edge of the frantic world I used to work within?
In the cradle of the world that holds me now?
In darkness, in a break in the storm, breathing deep?
I sense strings of connectedness.
To the land around and the trees and creatures it supports.
To the people in the house whose yellowed lights shine in the distance.
To the rolling waves as they meet the empty beach.
To the ghosts of the old women who’ve lived in this house in the century since it was built, their memories caught in creaking floorboards and muttered words.
To the little boy who grew up in a house like this, in another country, half a century ago and who, like me last night, would sit in silence and wonder at the marvel of being alive in this exact time and place.
Connection.
Across time, space, species.
I catch a movement on the edge of sight. Slowly I turn my head.
A small grey mouse is sniffing at the entrance of the trap I’ve laid for her.
Not interested, she moves away, darts beneath the oven to the space she’s found in the hidden parts of where I live.
Next time.
I like the mouse, but we can’t share space. I’ll catch and take her somewhere where she can take her chances in the world, with no people to perturb.
The moment is complete, but contains the seeds of its change.
Me, the night, the house, the mouse.
Perfect.
Unsustainable.
Perfection is not a static state.
Change is part of it.
Sitting in the quietude, I taste the simple wonder of being alive.
Time passes.
I write this in my bed, in the darkness of the hour before dawn.
I’ve hot coffee and the wind is back.
The rain batters on the window, and radiators creak as they warm.
It’s another perfect moment, though soon I must leave and start my day.
Dynamism in stillness.
Perfection.
This moment.
The aptness of everything.
Perfection waits in every moment.
When I stop my headlong rush through planning and regret and choose to notice, perfection is there, like a small mouse at the edge of vision.
I coexist with joy.
The dawn has come.
The perfect moment has passed and a new perfect moment starts.
After thirty years performing, directing and teaching around the world, now I coach and mentor artists and others to live in joy and creativity. I also still perform sometimes, but usually keep my clothes on.
I recently published a free training ‘How to make BIG decisions when you feel really stuck’. It’s a PDF and video. You can get your copy here.
More information about me here: www.johnbritton.co
Email: [email protected]