Between tiles sits the unseen truth: A subtle space continues the flow of tumbling tiles in quiet presence. Space does not morph into anything other than the all and nothing it unites. It is inconceivable to our rapt attention to only form and movement. A more patient observer, however, will discover that both form and movement originate in space.

The beginning beckons space to reveal the world around us (or space beckons the beginning?). A discovery, which may soon prompt love for the overlooked canvas against which the tiles come to life.

Space is plain. It doesn’t capture the stage in loud fits or screams in tossing colors and whirlwinds of drama. The absence of action and intent is remarkable, foreign to us ever performing beings. We are much like tiles set on a floor waiting impatiently for a push to rock us into motion. Our fall is nothing short of spectacular in our own making, until we lay greedily on the ground awaiting the next push.

I invite space into my sour recognition of tiles leaning into tiles and missing that, which is already here…has always been here, before my wake and after my parting, before youth and after the aged lay on their death beds releasing their last breath into the hold. Space is my hold. A motherly overseer to my being, my fighting, my urging and my soaring. It does not judge my feverish play on this short visit to earth. Ever present and allowing that to happen, which must.

In space I turn to a friend much like the shapeless clouds I pictured as a boy, dragons swooning across the sky. Only now have I come to recognize and embrace space as the friend I feared had abandoned me. I have been blind to the unobtrusive universe in and around me. Waking is opening ones eyes to the world as for the first time, softly smiling, silently knowing.