There is no “me”, but the story I tell myself. I grasp the story tightly to myself and do not recognize that the tale I’ve spun is entirely dependent on every other thing in the world.
I cannot point to anything else to define “me”. I can not point to my relationships. I can not point to anything that I have done in the past or some direction that I am headed in the future. It is all part of the story that I tell myself to create “me”.
I breathe in.
I pay attention to this moment. This moment that is not a place, something that is not solid. It is unfolding before me, being born and dying each moment. There is no me in the past. There is no me in the future. I have no life outside of the unfolding activity of this moment.
Through each moment, I flow like a body of water moving. There is only this moment as it unfolds.
I let go of this concept of a “me”, of a “myself”, of an “I” that stands separate from this world and environment. It drops away and I and all things are born and die together in the bloom of each moment.