Broken Glasses

They say that if you concentrate all of your attention on a single point, that point becomes the universe. I don't know. Maybe the universe is the sum of all attention. But then I think of all things unattended and unattending. The rock and the moss, the beetles and the springtails, the fox passing by and the farmer watching through binoculars. Infinitely more unseen than seen. Winds and mists. Ripples, echoes: all sources. People offer their attention to images and memories and hide from the world. At a time like this, when I'm looking at these broken glasses, I can feel it all. Feeling is seeing with your heart, as the poet says. It doesn't matter which one. Feeling is attention; where does it come from, where does it land? We should all be more careful. At a time like this, when I'm holding her broken glasses in my hand, I feel it all. There are no boundaries. The farmer is the rock and the beetles are the springtails. When I concentrate all of my attention on what used to be her glasses, I see her wearing them, unbroken, and she is the universe.