I wake in the morning,
and for a moment,
there is space –
vast, rested, still.

And then – sometimes slowly,
sometimes all at once –
it comes.

The cloud of me and mine.

A current of consciousness
rushing in,
ready to take over.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it’s just arriving –
and I have a choice:
to grasp it,
or let it pass.

The cloud of me and mine asks:
What am I going to do now?
What’s next?
Who will I talk to?
What messages?
What emails?
It swirls – relentless.

A tightness forms.
A tension.
A hurry.
An urgency that loops and loops –
grasping, digesting, analyzing,
stretching toward answers,
spinning of thoughts.

Busy, busy, busy.
This is the cloud of me and mine.

But I remember:
I have a choice.

When I wake,
there is also just this –
vastness.
No name.
No purpose.
No direction,
no past,
no future.
Just this.

This is who I am,
before I have a name.
I can rest, be, and do
as this ungrasping this.

It is a practice.
A focus.
A returning.

Home.