You may like to sit around a lot, yet your body likes to move. That's what your body was made for. You have a physical body while you are on the physical plane. What do you have it for if not to move?
Even a newborn baby moves its arms and legs.
Of course, your body rests too. Exercise. Rest. Exercise. Rest. There is a rhythm, sort of like the way an inchworm moves. Pull, stop. Pull, stop. Toward, stop. Toward, stop. Pull, catch up, pull some more, stop some more.
Of course, the physical is all illusory, and so, in illusion, the seeming body moves, and the seeming body stays still. How real is the physical on the physical plane, and yet the spiritual peeks in and has its say, and, in truth, it is the spiritual that has its way.
You are not a marionette, and yet, no matter what it may seem like to you, the spiritual pulls the strings. This may seem contrary to you at the same time as you recognize that you are subject to a higher power that wakes you up. What is it that is awakened? What is it that goes to sleep? Rather, what is it that never sleeps? Only the physical requires sleep. It requires sleep in the same way as the physical desires movement, the same way an inchworm goes about making its way in the world.
Eyes open, and eyes close.
The mouth speaks. The mouth closes.
The mind is alert. The mind waits, and the mind stuffs itself.
You are never alone, and yet you sometimes feel alone. Even when you are in a crowd of people that ultimately do not exist as separate from you, you may feel alone and weep. And, yet, beloveds, can one end of a carpet be separate from the other end? Is a carpet really separate from the floor? From whom are you separate? Certainly not from Me, nor I from you.
And yet you exert, and yet I stay still. I never move, and yet I move the world. Only on the physical is the world such a conundrum.
How can there be the movement of war when peace exists? How can there be silence in the midst of noise? How can there be love in the midst of turmoil? And yet there is peace, and yet there is silence, and yet there is love, and love rules the whole shebang. Love is what moves you. It may be love for you know not what, and yet love leads you, pushes you, moves you.
And so the body moves, and so the body sleeps. And so the mind rushes here and there, wears itself out, and your heart beats, and yet there are pauses between every beat. Could there be a beat without a pause?
There are pauses between every step you take. There are pauses between words. There are pauses between thoughts. There are pauses. There is rushing, and there is slowing down. Your life plays certain notes, and so your life is played out.
And what is it, this motion, this stillness, this start and this stop? What is this hullabaloo all about? It is about nothing at all except movement and its start in silence, and yet there is That all along which never moves and is ever silent. And yet how does silence exist in the midst of hullabaloo? And yet it does. And you have consciousness of yourself, and you have consciousness of Myself, as if I were a stranger to you when I am all of you, and you are all of Me.
How contrary is life, isn't it? It is a hop and a skip, and it goes only where it has always been. It never departs. The train never leaves the station, and yet it follows in its tracks, and you are following yourself all the way to Me where you have always been, and so you ponder, and so you live, wandering, as it were, when all the while you are stationed firmly in My heart. What a great place for you to be, right here, where you always are, and where I AM too. We are clasped together in an embrace from which there is no cease.