The Rabbit Knows

The rabbit froze, not an ear twitching, eyes wide open, looking, but not seeing, not even seeing me. It became a statue, an instant statue. That's what long instinct had taught it.

Don't move and all will be well . . . the danger will pass . . . be yourself . . . collect yourself . . . be present, unafraid. . . watch wide-eyed like a statue, like a portrait with a Mona Lisa gaze of acceptance and presence.

I wanted to talk to it, to learn about instinct, intuitive mindfulness, learn how to embrace fear or to breathe through it. What was the mechanism that permitted the rabbit to give up the quickness of the hop, the twitch of the ear, for absolute stillness?

Could it be learned?            

Taught?

Embraced?

Did it work?

What a question! I didn't need proof. The creature had stopped me with the gift of stillness. Not because I was a danger, but because I needed to see the example, the morning gift, the stillness of becoming oneself, of being oneself in the peace and beauty of a new day, without moving a muscle, without needing to do or be anything.

No action required.