though we strain

And yet, though we strain

against the deadening grip

of daily necessity,

I sense there is this mystery:

All life is being lived.

Who is living it then?

Is it the things themselves,

or something waiting inside them,

like an unplayed melody in a flute?

Is it the winds blowing over the waters?

Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers

interweaving their fragrances

or streets, as they wind through time?

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

(from: Book of Hours, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)