It's Really, Really Simple.

Such a lot of complicated mess everywhere. Such a lot of bother and to-do in order to get anything done. There's nothing wrong with that, but there it is. The mind boggles at the simplicity of this message. It just doesn't seem right, that there is nothing to be done, no one doing it, nowhere to go. The mind will string along the apparent happenings into a story, and doesn't like the idea of not being in charge. According to the mind, it all will happen later. Subtle procrastination borne of a feeling of unworthiness causes untold wretchedness. Perhaps this is "good" news then - there is no real procrastination. The goal is met, even in the midst of that uncomfortable feeling of mixed regret and hopelessness, that mix of the perfectionism that quells the birth of endeavour and the fear that it won't be worth the effort. Maybe if this is seen, then life seems lighter, and thought this is likely, there are no guarantees. Perhaps if there is nowhere to go and no one to get there, every obstacle dissolves. Goals seem to arise and the apparent actions that ensue can be loved for their intrinsic value, not their magical curative properties, the malaise being the sense of pointlessness and meaninglessness. The mind won't see it, but this is enough. Simply what is, is enough. More than enough, more than the mind can fathom. Beingness loves being, and that is enough, for it is everything.