Futility Arises.

When seeking drops away, there is just this, and this, believe it or not, is enough. The mind will point out that it seems a shame to do away with the importance of the story. Thoughts and feelings will arise that romanticise the indomitable nature of the human spirit. The struggle is valued, the will to survive applauded, the stories of overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles thrill and inspire. Becoming and evolving also seem natural and desirable. Introspection, knowing the self, self-inquiry, spiritual depth and the wisdom borne of surrender seem the greatest personal challenge we can take on; for successful self-inquiry, ending in complete knowledge of self and then complete surrender of self, make possible the loftiest goal of all: service to humanity. We strive to drop our selfish goals and help others. We gather wisdom, become centered, clear our minds, attain clarity, see that there is no one at the center but some ancient collective consciousness, we sense our connection to each other, and we lose our need for material comfort. We work very, very hard to get to this place. Our story becomes one of peace, self-forgiveness, and compassion for all. It sounds really, really good, and gives us something worthy to do. And there's not a bloody thing wrong with any of it. But it's not liberation. Liberation is this. It has never left, nor is it more attainable through practice of any kind. You are perfect in all your neuroses and selfishness; you never have any choice, even in what choices are apparently made; whatever is, is. It is enough, it is everything, it is wholeness and it is the only constant; its appearance and quality seem to change, but wholeness always is.