Stop awhile under my cool umbrella of shimmering leaves. Let the buzzing cicada lull you to rest. Feel my strong loving energy envelop you with welcome. To feel this you must release your grip on the shiny thing in your hand. The thing you hunch over and stare at hour after hour.
What is real? The world contained in your mesmerizing little object, or the root and bark, leaf soil and seeds that make up my existence? Is it the shade shifting on the summer grass?
What is real? Is it the breeze puffing its cooling breath across your body, the solid earth beneath your feel, supporting you and all you’ve done since before your birth; the moon and stars in the night sky? Is it the breath that rises and falls through your body like waves at the seashore?
What is real? The world inside your head or the world of your senses? What is real? The feelings and emotions that roll through you or the stuff of your imagination?