Now, or whatever it is

Now, this moment, this placeless place between then and then, is more than the growing point, more than a beginning or a terminus. I would say it was timeless, but actually it is less than that. It is dimensionless, empty of any thing, emptier than anything. Perfectly void, it is the source of everything; infinitely less than an instant, all times flow from it, inexhaustible.

If you can be still enough, before and to come may drop away like leaves from the stem of now. The empty instant appears, immeasurable, perfect, unperishing. The aeons and their gravities flow from it and it is not lessened; the curving distances and their sheaves of light are born in the hollow of its unbeing.

Little and quiet, its unwearying expanse supports the stars. There is nowhere you could go that it is not, nothing you could remember that it doesn’t precede; no future you could dream of or wait for that it is not already awaiting.

Now is the safest place, the final refuge, the healing of every loss. You cannot fall out of now, cannot lose or forget it. It is gentler than sleep, stronger than death. Perhaps you could call it love.