Oh, for a single clear unencumbered thought, a single perfect thought, perfect in shape and size and duration, illuminating every nook of the chaos and clutter that strains the house of my mind, engaging with it eloquently, marvelously, Not turning away or excluding anything nor elaborating upon or prolonging anything that secretly longs to come to rest. Rest. Yes. Rest here. Put down your burden, whatever it may be. Burden of memory, identity, past and future, actions and consequences. Let this perfect thought be the still eye of the storm, the still point at the center of the cosmos. Unimpeachable, unrepeatable, incompressibly perfect. Even in this imagining of it, I see how I move through ignorance and duality, pushing away what I think is causing problems, not seeing that the pushing itself is an expression of the problem that is not a problem. Nothing is real and therefore everything is perfectly deserving of love. Complete in itself because complete in its selflessness. My dear ones, come to rest in me. I know that you are easy to love because you are none other than myself and myself is none other than Buddha phenomena, Buddha nature. And Buddha is no thing, no person, no fixed identity. Any attempt to turn inward and fix is seen even in its arising as an expression of that which has no fixed point, is no fixed thing. How marvelous. --- *Jan 2025*