What if…

to appear

“deaf”, unintelligent,

unable to speak

is to be so wise

the water in the River

can speak clearly

and the blade of grass

can see your Innermost

Being

As you can see the River in you

and you in the River,

And you and the River can see

the Seed of the seed

that brought the grass to be

And the secret the grass has to share

of its Ancient beginnings

And the walk it took

to be here in your hand

And look into your Eye,

Or Rest beneath your feet

Rests you

in your Ancient Beginnings

And without a word, you, the River,

And the grass share the most Original

Conversation your being can hold.

Commentary 

There is a wisdom that does not announce itself, does not gather language, does not defend its presence. It can look like absence to the world—like dullness, like inability, like a quiet that has nothing to offer. And yet, this very emptiness is the clearing where reality begins to speak for itself.

When the need to interpret falls away, when the impulse to name, to grasp, to respond dissolves, something far more intimate is revealed: a listening that is not positioned outside of what is heard. The river is no longer an object of attention—it becomes a movement within the same field of being. The grass is no longer observed—it participates in the same seeing.

In this, perception is undone as distance.

What remains is a kind of shared interiority, where all things arise from a single, unbroken origin. The “seed of the seed” is not a concept to trace backward through time, but a living immediacy—an ancientness that is present now, prior to history, prior even to identity. It is not remembered; it is rested into.

And so, what appears as silence is not the absence of communication, but the return to its source. Before words divided meaning, before thought translated being into symbols, there was this: a direct communion where existence recognizes itself everywhere at once.

In that recognition, there is no speaker and no listener—only a mutual unveiling.

The river does not speak to you.

The grass does not reveal itself for you.

Rather, all three—river, grass, and what seemed to be “you”—are revealed as a single movement of knowing, a single presence aware of itself in countless forms.

This is the original conversation: not carried by language, but by being itself.

And to “appear” as one who cannot speak, cannot grasp, cannot assert—this is not a loss. It is a profound yielding. A returning beneath the surface of thought into the quiet intelligence that does not belong to anyone and therefore belongs to all.

Here, nothing needs to be said.

And everything is already known.