There’s a way that my habits and patterns block whatever wisdom I have. I think I know where to point, but my fear that the direction isn’t perfect, stops me. I think I know what to say, but perfectionism whispers, “what if that’s not it?”

Every so often during meditation, my habits fall away and I can see perfectionism through a loving lens, as just a constellation of thoughts, forming and dissolving. When that happens, wisdom is right there, waiting. Sometimes it waits like a signpost. Sometimes it shows up like gravity, reminding me to anchor to the earth. Sometimes it’s like peaches in summer, round and ripe and ready for picking, if only I remember to lift my gaze and gently open my hands.

(For everyone struggling with what freedom means right now.)