At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
(T.S. Eliot. No.1 of Four Quartets)
This elusive still point of reaching a place so deep inside that is supremely real in its intangibility. Reflecting on acceptance and how there is an assumption of serenity and peace. But maybe that is not the 'truth', maybe there is a need of accepting the difficulty of being in the world and how to still be able to find the still point where dance is a possibility.
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