There Is Nothing Wrong With Seeking.

It can seem to be a desert. It can seem very lonely, this seeking, this awakening, this apparent enlightenment that there is no meaning to our lives. Great frustration can arise for the seeker. It can seem that the only thing that matters is to "get" this, to "awaken", to be liberated from self and to then, the mind tells us, start living "properly". There appeared a point for my character that I had great clarity of mind, that I understood awakening completely, that my mind grasped it all as much as it could. I knew that what seemed to be was all there is, and that nothing exists except what could be called consciousness, and that we've dreamed ourselves up for a laugh. I understood that the goal was not awakening, that there was no goal. I had astounding revelations along the lines of my life wasn't the comprehensive failure that I had labeled it, and that everything I did was a prayer. But I knew this was just another experience, involving an experiencer, and wasn't liberation at all. I comprehended that there was no way I could comprehend it, that it was something huge beyond comprehension. I fully grasped that even the seeking of it was it, and that the seeker was what got in the way of just being. Yet maddeningly, absolute being was elusive. I knew it was everything already, but couldn't see it. There is no hope for the individual, I knew this, I understood that the last thing I wanted was to die as an individual, but I wanted to die anyway. I couldn't kill myself off. The more I longed for it, the more elusive it was. Then I gave up. I knew it didn't matter if "I" "awakened" anyway. There were loads of teachers out there with lots of methods for "achieving enlightenement" but I knew it was all a lot of hooey. Most interesting mind you, very fulfilling a lot of it, terribly energetic and serene, but nothing to do with the absolute - I knew it was just another story. The heavens roll into infinity, the particle microscosm begins to reveal its inward endlessness, science beckons with mind-expanding incredible stories of the nature of manifestation, but I knew it was all appearance, and that being was a great deal more than all that. Still I couldn't "get" it. The only hopeful thing I heard was, "You could die at anytime". This goes for death as it is usually understood, and death of identity. I realised that there was nothing I could do to bring it on. I gave up. In a great cloud of grief and depression, I just gave up. And by crumbs it apparently happened. There it was, everything, nothing, beauty in the meaninglessness, and I was that. It was already everything, it was so obvious, and all the seeking and resisting and being separate was it as well.

Blimey.

The Seeker Hides What Is Sought.

It seemed that before this energetic change of perception happened, there was an imperative not to feel anything even remotely unpleasant. Addiction is the most rampant form of seeking. There is a seeking to change what is happening, to change what the feelings happen to be, almost no matter what they are. Whatever feelings arise, there's a feverish gripping need to change them. If they are "bad", if they are regret or sadness or fear (especially fear), they must be changed. If they are "good", they could be even better, and held onto. Whatever was, was not enough. Whatever was, was not good enough. Whatever was, was mine to change. Now there is no need to change. Not only is there not a need, there is no one to change it. Yet everything carries on. It only ever did. This is not some bright and shiny enlightenment, coupled with great serenity and pervasive wisdom. This is just simple, ordinary being, unfettered by any need to claim it. There is no one who could claim it anyway. In this, it sometimes seems that "me-ing" still happens, that "I" long, "I" want, "I" need to be loved or validated or comforted. Yet there is very little for these arisings to stick to. They slide away, another apparent feeling in this, this that is all. Pain may come, but suffering doesn't need to. It was only the dreamed self that suffered in her separation. There is no way to really describe this, it is just what's happening, seen for the beauty that it all is, with little doubt or judgement. There is no one who needs to get this. Those who long, who work, who strive to make their life and world a better circumstance, their seeking is what veils what is sought. When the seeker dies, there is the fullness of life that was always there, even in the seeking of it. Even in the feverish need to change what is, there is simply what is. There is no point to it. That is life's great beauty.

Who Is It That Would Be Responsible?

Guilt and responsibility fall away. Who is it that would be responsible? Responsible behaviour seems to arise, but there is no one to behave and no one to forgive. This goes for the victim and the perpetrator, which both apparently have come up in my story. There is no choice or volition. Who is it that would choose? That anxious question "am I doing the right thing?" is moot. The right thing is done. Oddly, the paradox seems to be that when there is no one, the story unfolds in an easier way. The conflicts that arise of separation - and make no mistake, duality is the source of all conflict - the fear of otherness, the terrifying prospect of the ticking clock, the need to possess things and others so that we can feel safe - all of that seems an absurd tragi-comedy. Life goes on, but without the vested interest of "me". Fears come up, grief and loss, joy and pain. There is very little for these feelings to hook onto, but without the defence of self they seem remarkably intense. Life carries on, but so much more efficiently. Yet there is nothing wrong with being separate, that too is being, aliveness, oneness, whatever we're inadequately naming it today, being twoness. There is no goal but existence. And in that existence, so many miracles are apprehended. It is all miraculous. All we truly have is this, whatever seems to arise in it. All we truly are is this.

It Is The Most Obvious Thing, Yet Indescribable.

This is so magnificent, so amazing, superlatives fail to convey it. It's like nothing else, in fact it's like nothing. Everything has become entirely what it is. It's like saying wow to each little thing, being knocked out by seeing things anew over and over. Everything is new. It is always utterly, entirely new. And yet it's not happening. It's both real and unreal. Simultaneously. This can't be organised or taught. It is what is, in its unfiltered form; it's a miracle anything exists at all. The great secret of life is that this is the secret. The only thing in the way is the flimsy, yet constantly reinforced, idea that somehow we are separate from it. We are it, it is us. Yet everything seems to reinforce it. Everything seems to be presented with the assumption that we are separate individuals that are somehow fighting to survive. We are not. We are. We simply are. It is a great unruly play of beingness. Whole, complete, vibrant and exquisite. There is nothing to be done, nowhere to go, although the appearance of many things and places seem to arise. We live in infinite splendour, eternal being, it is this, what is, "here" and "now". There is nothing missing, there never was.

If Nothing Exists And There Is No One And No Point, Why Bother?

The mind gets ahold of these concepts and tries feverishly to make sense of them but to no avail. If no one and nothing exists, it's all merely appearance, and what seems to appear is absolutely meaningless, then why bother? Don't bother. There is no choice anyway. Bothering or not bothering will come up. There is no you or me to direct it. There is no one who can bother or not bother. This isn't just freedom from having to work terribly hard to make "your" life "work", this is freedom from everything. This is freedom from the illusion of a separate self. This is utter freedom. It is beyond what the mind can sort out. It is an eye that sees itself - impossible to understand.

It unrolls anyway. My apparent life is noticed, it is appreciated. It is lived, is it passionate. Goals seem to arise. But they are unfettered, and the fulfillment of them seems to be more than my mind could have imagined. But pleasure and a "better" life and "feeling better" are not goals anymore. Truly, there are no goals, just a story that seems to include them. Liberation from me is astounding, it is truly indescribable. What a fuss it all was, what a palaver, how seriously it was all taken. Even within separation, the mind can conclude that in a million years nothing that seems to be going on now will matter in the least. This is greater than that, a million times more, ineffably more. There is no million years from now, it is only this. This is all there ever is. There is no time. There is no space. Just the appearance. There are no parallel universes, no more than there is anyone or anything. The story can include them, but it just makes for an extremely interesting story. Mind expanding, so it would seem, but the mind can only ever expand so much. What is on offer, what simply is, is so much more, and the mind is just on the sidelines, a bit bloated in its role. It is all around, it is everything that seems to be. Call it unconditional love, most minds seem to like that. Call it God or Hank or Jehoshaphat. It is all there is and is always available, because it is all there is.

Heroism Is No Better Or Worse Than "Failure".

We tend to love those stories best that tell of the indomitable nature of the human spirit; of Job staying in love with God despite all the shit he was dished out by Him, of courage in the face of adversity, of triumph despite almost insurmountable obstacles. It gives us hope. It makes us feel safe. It gives us courage to say, even if the unspeakable happens to me, I will overcome. It's a lot of nonsense. There is nothing happening. There is no one to overcome anything. It's actually possible to live, just live, and not string the apparent happenings into a story of cause and effect and response. Of course no one can choose to string them along or not. Everything carries on just as it always seemed to whether "awakening" happens or not; but the apparent separate seeker of something "better" is frightened to death of not being in charge of it all anymore. Make no mistake, this is "letting go" to the nth degree; what these words point to is the absolute loss of "your" life. All of it, everything you ever thought was important, none of it is real. Of course no one can choose to let go, that mechanism of apparent choice is part of the dream, the individual cannot choose to die psychologically. The eye cannot see itself. We dream of being two for no particular reason. It is the game, the bursting joy of aliveness, becoming two in perfect balance. No story is better or worse than any other; no life is more worthy than the next. They are all equally meaningless, and equally miraculous. Oneness has no interest in any dream-person seeing that they are one. Oneness has no agenda. Oneness just is. And shockingly, surprisingly, that is enough.

The Immediacy Is Stunning.

Everything is always entirely new. Each breath is breathed a little differently, each footfall's pressure varies. I don't breath, there is breathing; walking happens, I do not walk. The absolute immediacy of life is incredible. What was "I" is all. And strangely, that's all it ever was; somehow I added "me" to it all. I am life happening, and so are "you".

There Is No Certain Way To Be.

It's so amazing, this. There seems to be a process but there isn't. There seems to be a deepening of this, but it is already all that is. What is happening is just what is happening, without judgement. There is nothing I can do about it, for there is nothing to do and no one to do it. But the freedom is beyond communication. I was so rich before, had so many things, so many ideas, possessions, feelings, and was eager to keep them all safe. Now there is no choice, although choice sometimes seems to come up. There is feeling and doing and thinking, but it is not happening to me; it is just happening. What is, is very big, it seems. What is, is everything, and I am that. There is wonder in the seemingly smallest thing. Just the sounds, the sensations, they have such a gorgeous quality. The liberation from separation is simply the natural state. Words can't convey it, but what these words inadequately point to is what saturates every bit of this appearance, this manifestation. It's the biggest thing here, it's the only thing here. And it is here despite there being nothing. Everything is a blessing. Even those thoughts that arise once in awhile that it all really sucks.

"I" Can't Get It Right. I Can't Get It Wrong Either.

The story is beautiful, fascinating and meaningless. It seems very meaningful indeed sometimes. I observed my children supporting each other through their day-to-day trials and I thought: I've gotten something right with them. But in the story, even the warmest feeling, the deepest fulfilment, is but a whisper of a greater possibility. A feeble reflection of its source. A lovely reminder to drop "me" and rather than coming home, see that this is home.

The idea that life can be improved is just an idea. Nothing can improve upon perfection. The story may be unfolding that goals become evident, dreams are achievable, security is shattered, or comfort is lost. The story may be so many things. The shattered life, lost house, injured child may be the opening to a greater and more fulfilling life path. But it matters not in the least. It is all meaningless and purposeless, there is nowhere to go, and no one to get there. The beauty and wonder of it all is in it's mere existence. Complete fulfillment encompasses you, it cherishes you, it is you and you are it. The only thing in the way of it is the dream that you are not it. You are.

The Wonder In It.

The beauty, the meaning, the wonder of this is its meaninglessness. All the time we are separate, we long to find what is missing. There is nothing missing. It is all right here, available to absolutely every apparent individual, no matter whether they've been praying and meditating on the mountaintop or shlepping away in a dusty field or drunk and stoned under a bridge somewhere.

The story is beautiful and compelling; it just unfolds. I see my children supporting each other in their small but overwhelming trials; my heart sings, I think "I've gotten it right with them", but even in the joyous parts of the story there is more underlying it.

No One Wants To Hear This.

Oh the intricacies of "spiritual practice." The complicated plowing through the more abstract and esoteric parts of the story in order to "achieve awakening." This is it, Baby. It doesn't get any more available than already being everything! It seems madness, the constant reaffirmation of separation by carefully labeling, defining, refining and controlling our apparent thoughts, our apparent feelings, our neuroses and ego-walls and annoying habits. You don't have to reduce or dissolve the ego. It's Oneness, ego-ing. I am suspicious when anybody starts talking about "being enlightened" or "an awakened person". There is nobody that needs to be "awakened." There is no one. Of course it's all divine, these teachers and their "non-dualistic" teachings. It's the passionate, meaningless explosion of aliveness. Pointless, contradictory and wonderful. No one wants to hear that life is meaningless. No one wants to hear there is no personal responsibility, or need for forgiveness; there is no one to forgive. No one wants to devalue the apparent story in time, that seems to be happening to "me". No one wants to know that the personality they have seemed to invest so much time and effort into is just an illusion. No one wants that personality to die.

In fact, no one wants.

There Is Nothing You Can Do.

There is nothing to be done. There is nothing you can do, or that anybody, any apparent individual, can do. Our thoughts are not ours. They arise, and we say, I thought that. But there is no one, and thoughts only arise in this. Each thought is a gift, though there is no one to receive the gift. Thinking happens. Perhaps the thought "I must meditate, and achieve the state of ideal bliss and emptiness" arises. But awakening, liberation, has nothing to do with any kind of practice. Liberation is the falling away of me, or you. Then there is just thinking, feeling, sitting, driving, hurting, laughing - just happening, to no one.

Despite this, there are no cobwebs in the corners of my humanity. There is such stupendous grief and bereavement that my breath stops from the heaviness of it. So many tears, so much sadness. Misery feels especially miserable when there are no filtres to ameliorate it, no anaesthesia to deaden it. In the story of my life that seems to unfold, there has been given to me the gift of a broken heart. " 'Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all." -Tennyson. I don't think it's better to have loved and lost, I know it's best. "Through love we feel we are greater than we know." -Wordsworth. Love is a little awakening; it offers a taste of it; we sense, we feel the boundlessness that we are. "Please help me mend my broken heart, and let me live again." -the Bee Gees. I don't want my broken heart to mend, not ever, because there is such profound sweetness and in the sorrow; empathy flowers in the gash. The absolute vulnerability, the poignancy of the human condition, the inevitability of endings and death are all a vibrant, living, breathing thing to me. No hiding from it - no running from it - just being it. Anything might happen at anytime, it is a swirling void, but there is no one who needs to be safe, and nothing to be threatened by.


Yet all this thrilling living, this sometimes sensible and often irrational thinking, this deep and all-encompassing emoting just happens, to no one. I use the personal pronoun, but I am bound by the prison of words. If I dropped all the pedantic semantics, I'd never say anything.


Maybe that's best.

Faith is unnecessary. It is dualistic. Who is it that would have faith? In what would they have it? On the radio this morning, I heard tales of those who were called to God. I could imagine the sense of deep supplication, of fear, of excitement, for those who seem to have been called into God's service. It makes me smile now, not a smile of smug superiority because "I" have "the answer", but because our sense of separation is so entrenched that the creation of such beautiful stories and sensational feelings seem necessary. Please let us hear the voice of God, a bit of proof that our faith was not misplaced. In fact, each breath is devout service. Each thought is already the higher call. God is not out there somewhere, calling the faithful to His will. It is all His will, it is all God, it simply is. Not only is everything just as it should be just as it is, there is nobody home to take the call. In this appearance, we are the call, and the answer, and the caller, and the receiver. There is no one who needs to have faith in something better, something higher; there is nothing better or higher. Just this.

No One Can Get This. They Already Have It.

There are a lot of seekers out there, pretty much every apparent individual. The sense that something is missing keeps us seeking whatever it was we believe we've lost; let's call it Meaning just for fun. The problem seems to be that the seeker gets in the way of what is sought. Where there is a seeker, there will always be something missing. How can everything that is be lost? There is no hope for the seeker. There is no practice, no amount of meditation, no depth of self-enquiry that can "awaken" someone that is only a dream. However, the dream can slip away; the seeker can die, and that leaves everything, and nothing. It is scary to the individual, the end of existence. No one wants their sense of being separate to die, no matter how illusory it is. Even if someone seems to want it desperately, they are it already. It is so all-encompassing and obvious, yet somehow it manages to be incredibly elusive. "Beyond the heart and mind of man" as JC was reported to have said. Look around. It is the biggest thing here. It is everything, just as it is. So ordinary, yet so rich; so commonplace, yet profound.

Even The Best Thinking Only Arises In This.

Thinking is not so big a thing as we seem to think. The mind is a lovely tool, it is the storyteller. Oneness, or consciousness, or whatever we're labeling it today uses the mind to separate oneness into two, consciousness into manifestation. We can never understand what is. The mind is not cut out to grasp the unknowable. Thinking just arises in this. The stories the mind strings together in apparent time can be so any things - beauty, cruelty, fascinating complexity. The scientists, the students of human behaviour, the scholars mostly believe that it can all be figured out, this, life, whatever it is. The mind can split and subdivide and expand the story in time to a breathtaking degree. I'm not brave enough to tell Steven Hawking that his fine mind and the story it reveals, that grasps so much of the nature of the manifestation, is just a tiny part of what is. A small piece of what arises. For some apparent individuals, the story falls into place, it is just the story. The parable that seems to have cause and effect. But there is no time for the story to unfold into, there is only timelessness. We live in eternity, this is heaven, timeless boundlessness. There is never anything but this, the story is all memory or speculation, that seems to arise in this. What freedom to sense that eternity is not something that will happen tomorrow, that "awakening" or "enlightenment" isn't something that anyone need seek. This is it, just as it is.

This Is Love, Whether it is Gandhi-ing or Hitler-ing.

There are no mistakes. Each way this apparently manifests is just as it should be. It seems what we label "evil" is the product of more and more separation. People engage in cruelty when they don't realise that we are each other. Hitler evidently needed a lot of therapy; he obviously felt very bad about himself. It would be safe to suppose his empathy levels were nil, and that he was a raving psychopath to whom others were useless objects. He pulled in a lot of others whose anti-social traits flourished in the environment of fear and megalomania. But what of it? What can be done? If nothing "bad" ever happens ever again, and the world is a "better" place, is that the answer? What was the question?


The answer is, it looks after itself. It is itself. Unconditional love is unconditional. What is, is accepted and loved. It is acceptance and love. It is a parable for another possibility. Any thought or action is just as it should be. This seems a big ask - accepting all, no matter what - and so it is, but there is no one who can either reject or accept. If there are fears, a deep sense of personal responsibility, an urge to right wrongs, there is nothing wrong with that either. Go to Africa. Feed the hungry. Raise awareness of injustice. Feel that "you" are making a positive contribution, that you're leaving the world a better place than you entered it. That is the story, it has nothing to do with absolute being, absolute being is not interested. The absolute encompasses it all. This is all there is; all there is, is this.

How Is It That Nothing Exists?

Well, exactly. Reality is nothingness. What we seem to experience is nothing being something. It makes no sense, nor can it. The mind is the tool of duality, of separation, of up and down and good and bad and them and us. The mind lets nothing see itself. Once in awhile the mind can get kind of close-ish to grasping nothingness. Nothing exists, there is nothing, pondered on a bit, can give an entertaining little revelation. Awe, fear, supplication, and immense gratitude can spring from the mind's fruitless attempt to understand what is not of the mind. The mind gives it labels; in this culture, the most common is God. I just read a quote from Richard Dawkins, who seems to take this whole story in time thing very, very seriously indeed. He said something to the effect that there is as much chance of there being a God as there is a tooth fairy. There is just as much chance of there being a Richard Dawkins. Oh, he seems real enough, I know. He'd be the first to tell you of his absolute reality, I'm sure. He'd scientifically prove his existence, no problem. Just try telling him he's a little bit of apparent energy, perceived as mass, in the play of beingness. "Get away from me, you new-age religious freak!" he'd doubtless shout.

Nothing changes, it is seen for what it is. Timeless being, passionate aliveness. It cannot be communicated with these useless, silly words. But it's sure fun trying!

In The Story In Time That Seems To Unfold...

There seems to be a lot of unconscious living. The thoughts that arise are, I am free, this is freedom, there is no one who needs to be free. In the story in time that seems to unfold, there is liberation. This character that seems to be me is celebrated. These things that seem to happen are involving, exciting, and it feels like a holiday. It pays not to talk about this awakening stuff. In the story in time that seems to unfold, it upsets people. Especially when I state that there is no personal responsibility, there is no one to have it. Personal responsibility can sometimes seem to arise, but it is the play of life, there is no one who has volition, there is no one. Who is it that would choose to be a criminal, or a saint? There is no one, so there is no choice. It unfolds, and most of the time, it's just happening. Or so it seems to be. There is no process, but in this process "I" am going through, there are fewer questions. There are no answers, so the questions are moot even as they arise. The character that is me rarely thinks so self-consciously about all this, but rather just pitches in there and has a go, even though there is no one who chooses to pitch in, or have a go. Before, I thought I was clueless, now cluelessness arises. The stuff beyond the mind, beyond understanding, in which the mind just takes its natural place of getting across the road without dying or helping my children with their homework, that stuff is behind it all, it encompasses it all, this apparent business of living. The simple beauty of it all is evident. Relief arises as the character that is me needs no point to it all. There isn't that despair, that relentless nagging feeling that I'm wasting time, that I should be doing something big or important or above all, worthy with my life. What can be labeled "worth" saturates each apparent atom of what seems to exist. Everything I thought my life was is lost; that tiny proscriptive box is burst wide open, and in losing my life, I gain everything. There is no one here that can make a decision, that has to choose between Scylla and Charybdis, these apparent happenings just wondrously unfold. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing is happening.

Dreams, dreams, follow your dreams, don't let your dreams die, don't give up your dreams. It seems every other pop song I encountered yesterday promoted this message of hope and tenacity. The thoughts that arose in response to this were along the lines of "what bollocks". I think if I read another helpful therapy-speak snippet of wisdom, "I" will apparently vomit. Don't sweat the small stuff! Be utterly present in whatever you do. And whatever that is, do it to the best of your ability! If you sweep the streets, let those streets shine with the glory of your loving sweeping. Let all those that come after say, 'Lo! There hast been in this place the sweeper of sweepers, see how the streets glow with compassion! We must practice lovingkindness (and I can't tell you how it nauseates me that those two words have been stuck together in some weirdly suspect Germanic sort of way). Be selfless. Look for the value to others in everything you do. We are all love, love is the answer, and the question, we must all be loving, love love love is all there is. For God's sake don't for one second be human, or angry, or selfish, or greedy or you'll spoil everything. And you'll also hate yourself. Forgive! Forgive yourself! Forgive everybody! Never, ever nurse a grudge. Don't indulge in self-righteous anger, unless of course it involves starving children or abused animals. Protect our Mother Earth. Become the Earth, we are the Earth, ground yourself. Fix yourself, you are hopelessly broken. But you are also intrinsically good. In fact, it's all good! Be good. Be as good as you can be. Let's all try and be good. In the moment. Attracting the "right" kind of energy. Lovingkind. BARF.

Perhaps there's nothing broken. Perhaps there is freedom from all this. Maybe, just maybe, if there is no one trying to fix things, what unfolds is more efficient, and more to the liking of the character in this fabulous play. All plays must have conflict. There must be villains as well as heroes, sadness and suffering as well as a good old-fashioned happy ending. I suppose there is no one here who takes it all too seriously anymore. Perhaps the falling in love with it all, just as it is, has happened. That poignant human longing to achieve in the face of adversity ("hold on tight to your dreams..."), perhaps there is just as much value, or as little, in giving the dreams up. Where there is nothing, life fills it with what was never dreamed, never thought, never known. It is all so amazing without any meddling with it whatsoever. Whatever it seems to be, my character says: bring it on.

I remember what seemed to cause the most resistance when all this started for "me". It's what I've been touching on in some of these blogs, the really scary stuff: if nothing matters, if this is all just a story, then what keeps me from being a raving sociopath? The only thing that dies is the seeker. The thing that is gone is the one who looks for wholeness. Seeing that this is just a story doesn't change anything, except that none of it is happening to "me" or is caused by "me". Paradoxically, the character that is me grows stronger, more herself. All the conditioning in the story is still there, and this character's conditioning has a strong moral code and intense remorse when it's violated. None of that changes. In fact, it intensifies. So, the story unfolding seems to include less selfishness, more helping, more time for apparent others. However, this is not the goal: it is simply what is happening. I remember seeing the semi-penultimate episode of The Sopranos. Tony's therapist becomes convinced that talking therapy only stengthens the criminal's toolbox of rationalisation, and gives him better information about the parameters of society he must seem to be conforming to in order to get away with murder, literally in Tony's case. She throws him out of her office. I remember being appalled that my sympathies had been firmly with the sociopath, when such anti-social behaviour was in fact to be reviled. Now I see that there are Tony Sopranos in this world for balance. My character feels glad that I'm not one of them, but they are no more nor no less important, no better or no worse, than anything else that seems to come up in this passionate play of life. The sociopath commits crimes. He feels little remorse. He is the extreme of selfishness, and has no empathy. Certain individuals in society see the need for punishing, or trying to cure, this behaviour, and become police or lawyers or psychotherapists. They have little or no success, and it often seems that incarceration is the only, regrettable, answer. What is called the "best" in human nature rejoices when these people seem to be cured, and have regrets, and develop empathy, and learn to love. It is all as it must be, and however our characters respond to such a story, or participate in it, it is still just a story, an explosion of passionate aliveness, a parable for another possibility, one that is boundless and accepts and loves all of these stories - because it is all of these stories, and cannot reject itself. I find my character in my story is having fun. There are worries and concerns that are part of the story, but it seems more and more that what unfolds is utterly, mesmerically fascinating, enchanting, and breathtaking. Who is it can resist what is, although resistance seems to arise? I am Tony Soprano, and his shrink, and the wall that seems to be in front of me, I am it all, and more. And so is "everybody".

The "Moment" of "Enlightenment."

Once this has been seen, it seems there is no going back. It's difficult to truly, really take it all very seriously anymore, although earnestness can still arise. There's no way to describe what appeared to happen, except to say it certainly wasn't the mind's idea of "awakening". I keep thinking of a concept I was holding onto while I was still here, longing to not be, longing to die psychologically, metaphysically, whatever: Jesus' entreaty to "Love thy neighbour as thyself." Well, perhaps he wasn't referring to those apparent individuals with low self esteem and suicidal tendencies. If I loved my neighbour as myself in that part of my story, I would have been trying to murder the neighbours regularly. It's funny what society pities rather than punishes. Suicidal people are helped, homicidal people are chastised. But it's something I thought I could do. Some way to act as if I was "awake" until I "awakened". Then I supposed I'd go around in a cloud of bliss, all problems solved by being moot, charismatically drawing the legions of hungry seekers to me with natural spiritual magnetism. What on Earth I thought I was going to do with them, I've no idea. I thought that I was on one side of awakening, and if I crossed the line somehow, I'd be awake. It's not like that. What is seen is that I was never not awake. That there is no one that needs to awaken because there is no one. This is being awake, this, exactly as it is. With all neuroses intact. With or without diligent practice. Drunk, sober, raving with lunacy, it doesn't matter what the story seems to be. The absolute stillness, the timeless consciousness, was always there, both underneath it all, and encompassing all of it. It is all of it. I was just looking at a little video snippet on a spiritual teacher's website, earnestly espousing the merits of this and that, looking at dreams, fixing our lives, being better people, sitting in silence and experiencing pure energy, blah blah blah. There's nothing wrong with all that, it just doesn't have anything to do with enlightenment. It screams and reinforces the existence of a separate person who can be taught by another separate person. It reinforces duality whilst purporting to teach oneness. All the time there is someone who seeks, the duality is reinforced. There's nothing wrong with any of that either, it is simply another interesting story of how some people earn a living. Freedom from self is always available, even behind the veil of separation, because it is already everything. It's all there is, there's no escaping, although apparent individuals try. Try very hard indeed. I see so many people for whom peace of mind is the goal. They meditate, they pray, they practice anything they can find that will still their mind and make their state of being a peaceful one. There is nothing wrong with an unpeaceful mind. But if the thought comes up that it might be nice to have some peace, and take some apparent action to bring that peace about, there's nothing wrong with that either. There's nothing wrong, despite appearance. There's nothing right, either. There's nothing.

It concerns no one, but this character that seems to unfold is seen very clearly. This bit of aliveness happening that is me becomes more herself, paradoxically. She seems needy, but not overly so, fairly depressed, and casting about for recognition very paradoxically indeed. It is what it is, and needs no fixing, although thoughts of repairing the psyche arise. I seem to remember thinking last night, what a burden clever people have, they are disadvantaged with understanding too much, with worshipping the mind. A prison of obfuscation. Seeing this is so simple, it confounds the mind. Everything you have ever been seeking is all around you, it is you, it is everything just exactly as it is - this seems to hold no hope for improvement, and so it doesn't. There is nothing that needs to be improved, and no one to improve it. What of the starving in Africa? What of the needless suffering of the weak and vulnerable? It is the story, just the story, put onto passionate bursting aliveness, manifesting in balance. Thoughts of helping those apparent individuals can certainly still arise, they seem to do so in "me". Apparent helping actions can be taken. Why not? No one chooses to help or ignore. Helping and ignoring happen. The story will seem to unfold, whatever it is. And it isn't the story that holds the secret, that elusive secret of it all, of life's purpose. It isn't what appears to happen or not happen in those stories. It is the existence of the story, any story, at all; of the possibility of absolutely anything. That anything exists at all is a miracle. It is both real and unreal, and unknowable. So why on Earth do I try to describe it? I don't.

Attempts at description happen.

Bliss "Sometimes" Arises.

Perhaps "I'm" falling in love with it, after all. It's seemingly a lot to take, giving up totally, having no choice because there is no one to choose, just life doing its thing. All sense of security goes away, it's all happening in total free fall, but it's OK because there is no one who needs to feel safe. What arises is not that sense of utter bereavement, but a risky excitement. There is no one to take delivery of the excitement, it just is.

I've finally had some questions about all this. What a shame for our loved ones, someone said, that we might prefer not to exist. There is no one to prefer anything. This isn't about suicide, although those thoughts can come up along with everything else. This is about, for want of a better way to phrase it, clear seeing of reality. As both nothing and something, as aliveness playing at manifesting. Yet everything seems to carry on, it only ever did. I just put a dream-self onto it. This tragedy is happening to me. I've scraped my knee. I feel terrible. I feel blissful, isn't this great, now I'm panicking because it'll never last. Here I am in the throes of addiction, the most intense form of seeking, when whatever just "is" is never "right" and must be changed. In fact it all just happened and there was a veil in front of it. In fact, these are only memories, little firings in my apparent brain, happening in this timelessness. I suppose timelessness is something even the mind can grasp. When is it now, exactly? "Then" is only memory, "to be" mere speculation. Just little firings of the synapses. The present never comes. How long does the present last? One nanosecond? Even a nanosecond can be broken down into smaller parts, a beginning, a middle, and an end. So there is only this. Just this, timeless being. And maybe, just maybe, what arises is some form of appreciation of it. Nothing matters, yet everything is a miracle. No panic. No need to hold onto the bliss, there is no one to hold onto it, but by God I'm going to enjoy it while it "lasts"!

Let's Talk About the Story.

There are monsters and angels in the story. These are allocated by the mind, whose function is to divide the one into the two - for the hell of it, for the heaven of it. For no reason at all. The mind resists its dethroning. And these monsters and angels are difficult to relinquish, for in losing the self we are it all, we are Hitler, the vilest murdering paedophile, the saintliest most selfless relief worker in the Sudan, all of it and none of it. In awareness compelling thoughts arise of ridding the supposed world of strife, but there is no balance in a strifeless world. Thoughts and deep longings to relieve suffering arise, and actions follow that seem to relieve it, but there is no one who suffers. We read books, look at the message in the film, seek the opinion of the clergy, always asking, what is it? How should I live my life? What is its purpose? How can I make it work? I regret all the wasted time. I have deep remorse for those I've hurt. What is the answer, the secret, the message, the key, the revelation? It is all unconditional acceptance and love, and unconditional acceptance and love unconditionally loves and accepts it all, it is it all. It cannot reject itself. There is order and beauty, there is chaos and revulsion, none of it is the preferred state. It is all the fascinating, thrilling, neverending story that happens not in time or space, but in stillness and eternity. It is both real and unreal, it is nothing being something. We are more than the story, the story that seems so compelling but is a dim reflective parable. So much, so much more.

It Starts To Make Sense...Maybe That's A Bad Sign.

It seems that the confusing thing about all this - nothing wrong with confusion - is that there is, now, rising is awareness, things that are mutually exclusive. Things co-exist that are opposed to each other. In my apparent inner life, this would be feeling absolutely magnificent and like nothing, not existing at all. Being no one, and being a strong character, one that in fact seems to get quirkier all the time. Feeling terribly alone and feeling that I am everybody, that the sense of existence is shared, that it is in fact the same thing. Being two and being one, simultaneously. The mind can't make head of tail of it, but behind all the chatter is that stillness, the profound consciousness that is all, including the chatter.

It's finally beginning to seem like the biggest practical joke ever, like some people mention. I feel inclined to laugh when I take the play of life terribly seriously. Taking it terribly seriously is just fine, by the way. All this life - my particular story - it's all been meaningless, except in it's mere existence, and what I've been desperately searching for has been under my nose the whole time. All that - for nothing! All that - nothing! No need to struggle to understand what is ineffable, but by God it still seems I try. Trying happens, anyway. No one guides it, no one needs to understand it, it is marvelously whole and perfect. Even when it seems it is not.

Bloody hilarious.

Blah, Blah, Blah.

These words are unmitigated gobbledygook. All words are. The story can be very, very interesting. But the story is unnecessary. As tiny children, we were the story. Whatever it seemed to be. The tree was climbed, the wind was marveled at. When the one who seeks wholeness, the grown-up, drops away, it is seen that wholeness is all there ever was. So what, my mind chimed in for awhile. I have been in a desert, waiting to fall in love with it all. Now the unspeakable wonder of this becomes plain. There is no process, there is nothing happening to no one, but the story that seems to unfold is one of deepening. More and more personal identity falling away. It isn't more clearly seen, but it is more appreciated. There's no one here to stop it. The boundless wonder of this is clearer. And it's so normal, so obvious.

When this change in perception, or whatever we're calling it today, seemed to happen to "me", I was doing the washing up. I had a giant butcher knife in my hand. The knife seemed to change. It became utterly knifish, perfect in its knife-like-ness. I saw clearly that nothing exists. Just this ineffable absolute stillness and oneness, playing the game of seeing itself. Everything changed and nothing changed. I'm aware this sounds like complete nonsense, and so it is. Trying to talk about non-duality is exceptionally unrewarding. I don't expect anyone to "get" this, they are this. There is nobody that needs to "awaken," they are already "awake" but dream they are not. It's a difficult pill to swallow. Separate people will fight hard to deny that there is no one, no separate will, no responsibility, no process of becoming a whole and complete person. The neuroses, the addictions, the cruelties, however repugnant, are perfect just as they are. Astounding. Yet no one needs to do anything. There is no one who ever chose to do anything, there is just life, consciousness, whatever, seeing itself. It is amazing, and it never went away.

This Is It.

This is it, and there's no pressure to "make something" of it. All there is is this, and it is timeless, and mocks the fear of death, for death is something that happens at the end of a story in time. This is it, and it is scary, and joyful, and full of bereavement and suffering and bliss and uncomfortableness and everything in between. Agony and ecstasy, confusion and ambiguity. All there is is this, and the story seems to unfold, a billion stories, more, more than one for each apparent individual. Yet there is no story, just timeless being. None of it is wrong, and none of it is right, is simply is, in perfect balance. The liberation of this is indescribable. In losing myself, I gain all eternity and infinity. All there is is all there is. What is sought is what it already is. Love it. It is you.