Monday, 29 December 2008
This Bag Of Bones Needs No Management.
How everlastingly exhausting it is to be human. Each morning the bag of thrills and visions and aches and favourite colours and tasks to be trudged through has to be assembled. When this shift in perception seemed to happen, all that was seen for what it was - not terribly important, just by the by. It assembles itself. It needs no management. Amusement arises when I hear folks speak of having a relationship with themselves. It is good mental health, but it seems to be such complication. Not only is there a dream of separation, they are separate from themselves as well as everything else, and some christened sub-personality is having a sincere conversation with another named compartmentalised entity. However, there is nothing wrong with complication. They are just concepts, just thoughts, just apparent bits of electrical energy in the brain. Just the energetic dance of life, thoughting. The sense that all there is, is this, whatever this seems to be, is deepening, but of course it isn't really. That's just the story, and the mind's interpretation. The mind is just the mind. The mind will never get this. Mind's job is to divide everything up. In this "new" perception, the divisions just seem to arise - they are not the be all and the end all. What is it that Jesus said? "Beyond the heart and mind of man." I am the stillness, the boundlessness that all existence arises in. And so is everyone and everything else. This little piece of awareness and sensation is just life, me-ing. What is beyond it, and part of it, behind it and encompassing it, is that ineffable thing that is All, and is so big it it everything. Sometimes labeled consciousness, or the One, but the name is just another little electrical spark. It's so big and obvious, it seems strange that the dream of separation is "reality" for so many apparent individuals. It is gently everything. Even the sense of location drops away. Just looking down now, I am the keyboard. It seems entirely self-evident. Yet memory arises too of when I would read something like that and think, what a nut job. I am the keyboard? Get some meds for Christ's sake. Now it's just glaringly indisputable. There is no one to manage this bundle of human bits and pieces. There is no one. The bits and pieces just come all by themselves, and in whatever guise, they are joyous celebration. Even depression, which seems to be lifting.