We can wake up when we feel how slippery life is.

Life Is Slippery

As we lifted from the water,
I could feel us slipping across the surface—no solid ground beneath,
just motion, enough speed to maintain the illusion of stability.

That illusion—the trick our minds play to keep going,
to hold together stories of self, permanence, and reliability—helps us survive.
It keeps us from freezing, from falling apart.

And yet, it is an illusion.

Just like glaciers, which appear fixed and insurmountable to the blinking eye.
But step back—pause, breathe, wait—
and you can see them sliding
ten or twenty feet each day toward the sea.

We, too, are always sliding.

Nothing stays the same—not even we.
Everything finds its way toward union or dissolution:
from separation to unity,
from formed to unformed,
from creation to dissolution,
from potency to stillness,
from here
to gone.

And so,
instead of grasping for solid ground,
I listen.

Instead of bracing against change,
I feel the slipping—
and let it teach me
how to be here.