Tuesday, 21 April 2009
You Would All This Time Have Proved There Is No Time For All Things.
Some of the people who follow this blog, I know. A couple of them have asked me "what's it like?" referring to whatever the hell it is I'm trying to write about in the blogs. It's like nothing, and that makes perfect sense to me, even to my poor beleaguered mind these days, within its limitations. "I can't describe it properly" or "it's like nothing" are extremely unsatisfactory answers but they're the best I can come up with. Some people I know who read the blog react slightly differently to me, and my character doesn't like it. I'm not weird, I want to say, this isn't weird, it's normal, it's the opposite of weird. Strictly normal and ordinary. I correspond by email with some of the people I link to, the ones who use the same kind of words to point to oneness (or whatever the proper word is) by some tacit agreement. He was saying he was into Chinese herbs or something, and I responded I was not into herbs or meditation or primal screaming or attaining any of the variety of states of bliss available or self-inquiry or bikram yoga or much of anything except a good, strong cup of coffee and a fag. (Fag in the English sense meaning a cigarette.) This is available to all, it is all, it is the absolute reality; the recognition that what we call reality is tenuous, a construct, a play, a game, a meaningless form of the formless, imbued with shining wonder, even the yucky things. The person still believing they are separate is this as well. Absolutely everything that seems to happen is this, whatever it is we are trying to point to with these meaningless squiggles; what is, is. Whatever you are doing or thinking or feeling, even if it is violently opposed to this concept, is this. All is love, or grace, or Jehosephat if you like, it doesn't matter what you call it. It doesn't matter if it is seen or not. It is, whether you like it or not, or whether my friends think I'm weird or not; there is no escaping from this. Sometimes what seems to happen is a separate person walks down the path through the woods towards the field in the drizzle feeling discontent, and suddenly, oh! What they had been seeking was the path and the woods and the field and the drizzle and the discontent. (I love that Zen saying: before awakening, chop wood, carry water. After awakening, chop wood, carry water.) It is screamingly, laughably obvious. It doesn't matter how many layers of self you peel away, how much self-inquiry you pursue, how thoroughly you banish your ego, how much you deny yourself, how selfless you become, how many gaps you find in your thoughts, how often you seem to be in the stillness of source, or how many witnesses you find, although there is absolutely nothing wrong with all of that. Wherever you go, there you are. This is it.