You choose, or you make the choice not to make the choice today.
You decide, or you decide that now is not the time for decisions, it is a time for honouring uncertainty, holding it close, making sacred this familiar place of no-answers-yet.
There is no choice but to be here, where you are now, an ancient place where both certainty and indecision are allowed, both choice and lack of it, both answers and these unanswered questions, and the most profound doubt.
There is no choice because this moment is already exactly as it is,
this breath, these thoughts, this glorious uncertainty,
this vastness in which everything is possible.
You choose, and you have no choice but to choose.
Or you don't choose, and you have no choice but to sink into your lack of choice, bow to it, today.
And then the entire notion of choice, and with it, the notion of an individual chooser, dissolves into sunsets and swallows and the scent of lavender, and laughter, and the next exhale, and the next inhale, the breath breathing itself;
and this is the age of miracles.