Sam Under the Redwood

On a small bench beneath a wide Redwood tree sits a person named Sam.

Sam has always been curious about the inner workings of the heart and mind.

They are drawn to the simple teaching that presence itself can be an act of non-harming.

Today, Sam is not trying to achieve anything.

They are practicing listening.

At first, listening means noticing sound —
wind moving through branches,
a distant hum of traffic,
a bird calling and then falling quiet.

Gradually, listening widens.

Sam begins listening inwardly.

There is tightness in the chest.
A faint buzzing in the jaw.
A dull ache behind the eyes.

Instead of analyzing or fixing these sensations, Sam lets awareness rest with them.

Listening shifts from thinking about experience to sensing it — receiving the body directly.

The body speaks in sensations.
The way to listen is to feel.

A flicker of irritation appears — small but noticeable.

Almost immediately, the mind comments:

This again.
You should be calmer.
Why can’t you relax?

Sam does not try to silence these thoughts.
They listen to the judging mind itself.

The commentary becomes another sound in awareness.

There is no need to agree.
No need to argue.
Just noticing.

Curiosity.
Care.

A wave of sadness follows — felt more as weight in the shoulders than as a story.

Sam lets the breath move gently through the heaviness.

Not forcing change.
Not waiting for transformation.
Simply receiving.

Something shifts — subtly, quietly — not because it was pushed, but because experience, when listened to, often moves in its own time.

The Redwood stands above, steady and unhurried.

Listening begins to feel less like a technique and more like companionship — keeping company with what arises.

Sometimes that companionship feels spacious.
Sometimes awkward.
Sometimes restless.

Change is slow. Inconsistent.

That seems alright.

Sitting beneath the tree, Sam senses something simple:

When we listen closely —
to the body,
to the mind,
to the world —

we step out of reactivity and into relationship.

Listening does not solve everything.

But it creates space.

And in that space, something steadier begins to take root.

Sam is still learning how to listen.

But today, under the Redwood, there is enough quiet to feel what is here.

And for now, that is enough.

Dear listener (aka reader),

You might pause here….

Take one breath.

Notice one sensation in your body.
Notice one sound around you.

What happens when you listen — without trying to change what you hear, or anything else —
and allow your senses to open to what is arising?