Tuesday, 14 April 2009
A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.
Everything, absolutely everything in the appearance is already the immaculate expression of being. This includes everything, with no exceptions. It includes all the billions of incongruencies and unresolvable dilemmas that crop up when one story seems to intersect another, and there are so, so many stories. It includes scientific outrage at the concept of oneness, and the disparagement heaped upon various advaita disciplines (or lack of discipline) by various other advaita practices. It seems a chaotic bundle, a confusing dichotomy, or a plate full of impossible choices; but whatever it is that seems to be arising, whatever this is, is perfectly and exquisitely whole. There is nothing to be done, it is done. Perhaps there are still a lot of questions that come up, and the questions can be asked until it is realised that there are no questions, for there are no answers; there is no problem, whatever seems to be is what is, and it is just as it must be. There seems to be so many apparent individuals who cling to the desire to make the story just right, and there is nothing wrong with that; but in fact, despite the appearance of so many of them, there are no stories. Stories need time to unfold, and there is no time. In fact, there is nothing at all, despite the appearance of vastness in the cosmos, and vastness in the minute workings of matter at the tiniest level. Nothing is happening, despite the appearance of great workings and doings and contrivance; there is nothing at all but the light that makes the appearance possible. It is the deepest reality, the absolute source, consciousness, oneness, whatever you wish to label it. It is the biggest thing in any apparent room, or field, or space station gazing down on the Earth. It is the only thing. There is no need to detach, or self-inquire, or be the stillness, or know yourself completely, although these apparent actions can arise. You can't kill yourself. Trying to kill yourself, stripping one apparent layer back at a time, until there is nothing left, certainly seems the right way to go about seeing the absolute, but it is here already. Whatever it is that seems to need to be done will be done. It seems to unfold, flawlessly despite the flaws, unblemished despite the warts. There is no one who needs help in this perfection, but giving up might be helpful.