There Is Only One. Who Cares?

"We live in duality," (apparently) said a friend of "mine" yesterday. We live. Duality is the play, the fun, the balance. It is the seeming product of the mind doing its dividing thing. There's certainly nothing wrong with diving in there and participating in the story for all it's worth. There is no one who chooses to do that or not do that. Absolutely anything might happen at any given "moment", including seeing this. Including whatever horror or pleasure the imagination part of the mind can come up with. What is not often seen, or so it seems, is that these are not "our" thoughts. They are being, thought-ing. They are gifts given by no one to no one. These words go around and around, because they are necessarily dualistic. It is especially difficult to explain that there is no one who needs to "awaken." We are all already that. There is only beingness, or oneness, everything and everyone and every thought and every feeling is only one. The mind and body, they are beautiful mechanisms for being to play at two-ing. But what is the mind and body? Energy, says science. What is seeing and hearing, touching and thinking? Energy, just little electrical impulses. Through science, the mind is surprisingly brought to the conclusion that what is so solid and measurable is not truly there, but is only a little signal in the computer of the brain. The brain, whose component atoms are only energy. This, I suppose, is what is meant by reality - or what is taken by most apparent individuals to be reality - being illusory. We dream, and in the dream the objects seem solid, but they are indisputably just firings of the synapses. Our apparent waking life is no different. Oh, it all seems very solid and real, but that's just for convenience. Perhaps not just convenience. Perhaps, just perhaps, it is all celebration. Whatever it is that seems to be manifesting, is celebration. Even those things the mind divides into "good" and "bad", all of it is celebration. Nothing missing, nothing wrong, nothing right, just whole and complete and wondrous as it is. Everything I thought I had been looking for in the story of my life was always there, cleverly hidden. And in this dropping away of me, the most outrageously interesting and thrilling things seem to be arising. Whatever they seem to be, they are just energy, just little electrical sparks revealing to my eyes and ears and brain what the story seems to be. And the wonder of that is only little sparkings too. We and everything are so much more.