My Part Of Death, No One So True Did Share It.

There is peace, and that was never the goal; there is no goal. Awakening is not the goal, there is no goal. Perhaps the realisation that there is no one, just life, happening, to no one, perhaps that is the goal? There is no goal. There is nothing wrong with the self, or ego, or whatever you want to call it coming back and wanting to claim and hold onto any peace or bliss that's going. However, when that is less, when the self slips away, there seems to be more peace. Peace of mind, peace of mind - how many times I've heard the longing for this! How many words have passed from troubled lips, bemoaning the life given, resisting the sights, sounds, feelings, thoughts and sensations that are wholeness, whatever they seem to be. Yet it is understandable. The story of life, dependent on memory and speculation, taken so seriously, is reality for most apparent individuals. This game is the be-all and end-all for most. Tell someone who's just lost their child, or been forced from their home and is holed up on a beach, crouching behind sandbags to avoid the shelling, that this is wholeness; doubtless it wouldn't go down too well. The mind will latch onto these stories of suffering and grief as proof the story is, indeed, the be-all and end-all. The mind will do anything to stay in its throne. The mind will say that it can't possibly not be in charge when there is all this suffering that needs to be ended, and the mind is scared that if it isn't in control, the stories will become meaningless, and that means the self will be callous and unfeeling toward the plight of others. The great irony is: even the mind's clinging to power is wholeness. Even the fear of being no one is wholeness. The beauty of oneness is that it is everything, whatever it seems to be. There are so many ways oneness likes to talk and write about itself. Seekers have heard it all before; there is no one, no one on a journey, nowhere to go; enlightenment is the dropping of the seeker; duality is oneness; there is nothing happening, simply oneness, sitting, typing, feeling, thinking; and on and on. There is peace "when" the seeker dies. But this was never the goal.

And Wheresoever We Went, Like Juno's Swans, Still We Went Coupled And Inseparable.

This is everything, this is wholeness, and there is nothing wrong. The mind's job is to rove and question and critique and judge, conclude, and devise action. Yet whatever action is taken, whatever questions come up, whatever critiques and judgements are given, they are just what they are, not a solution to a nonexistent problem. Yet even the perception of a problem is perfect. Every tool exists so that the somethingness from nothingness can be apprehended, and apparently negotiated. The notions that the appearance is flawed, and must be corrected, is part of the endless game; and although there is nothing wrong with wrong and nothing that needs changing, nor, indeed, anyone who can change the perfection of what is, it may be seen that this is paradise. It most assuredly, obviously is exactly what it is, and there is no way it could not be perfect, even in the questioning of its flawlessness. How beautifully it seems to appear, and it cannot be improved upon, even those confusing and ironic thoughts that long for improvement. This is what is longed for and searched for and killed for; this, this life, in this endless now, there is nothing to search for; this is it.

And Full As Much, For More There Cannot Be.

Left brain versus right brain cognition, fascinating stuff, all of it. The mind gazes at itself, its processes, its composition, and is comforted to know its own quantity and quality. A talk by a brain scientist who really enjoyed having a stroke has been drawn to my attention, and it's mesmerising. Refreshingly unscientific, she evangelistically describes the blissful feeling of oneness she was given when the left side of the brain was left inoperable by the stroke, leaving only the right brain, unencumbered by the linear concerns and separate identity of the left brain, all those cognitive mechanisms that allow us to read and cross the street and analyse the world and remember to buy bananas on the way home. She decries the world, led, so it would seem, by the linear left brain, which in its identification of a separate self gives us fear and hatred and wars and murder, as we protect the illusory self from harm. And yes, the self is illusory; it has been scientifically postulated, if not proven; just read Patricia Smith Churchland's article on the putting together of the identity, reformed anew each morning, so presumably not there most of the time. This theory is sometimes cited by those who point to Advaita (or whatever the correct moniker is today) as "proof" that there is no one, only oneness, us-ing. The mind sees its reflection and is comforted to know itself, smug even; the left brain has protected itself with knowledge. We can also look at the nature of the very matter that makes up everything, as particle physicists and nanobiologists do, and the more we look, the more it is obvious that there's nothing there. There is nothing wrong with any of this. It only occurs to me that most of "us" walk around, or think, or talk, or love, or do, or be, or are enchanted by what is - the endless beauty of a leaf - or are disgruntled in turn, this then that, in perfect balance, left brain and right brain, working together, just as they do, and that this, just as it is, is perfection. The hate and wars and mediocrity and senseless waste and selfishness and aberrations decried by so many only serve to make possible great compassion, love, selflessness and genius; one may not be apprehended without the other. The answer to every question is so screamingly, glaringly, obvious: this is it. We live in paradise. This is paradise. This is it.

So, Ere You Find Where Light In Darkness Lies, Your Light Grows Dark By Losing Of Your Eyes.

It's easy to be, and there doesn't need be any change at all, not any the dreamer can do anyway. This is the gift, the dream, this is what is. And the appearance rocks, despite the parts of the appearance who believe the entirety of the appearance is going down the toilet. Everything is an endless miracle blah blah blah, but some of the more obvious ones - better health, better communication, more compassion - are worth noting. Whatever seems to happen in the world is no better or worse than whatever has ever seemed to happen to it, despite the clucking tongues of those judgmental arisings in oneness. It's in balance for sure, and everything is another face of love, even those fanatics gripped with hatred and fear, using bombs to make their point; yet here we are, it seems, in all of this, and this is what it is, and it is a miracle it exists at all. Some of these pointers - people who write about Advaita or whatever the proper terminology in late May is - believe the story is at a hot point, that many are seeing the fragile, illusory nature of the appearance, that egos are dying left and right, that the energetic shift is appearing to happen to many of the little stories that seem to walk around, that there is some sea-change. Maybe, maybe not, it matters not. Liberation from the dream is always available, but it doesn't need to happen; if it's meant to happen, it will; if it's not, it won't. The longing for it is the highest security prison. There is simply nothing wrong, or nothing right. This is always enough, always freedom, always a prison, always chattering, limiting language; always questioning, always disgruntled, always ecstatic, always everything. Timeless being, no one doing, no one, just one. This is perfection. There is nothing to be done but what is done.

Never Pray More; Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

There is suffering, close, and although it is seen that there is simply suffering, no one suffers, and there is no one to help and no one helping, the urge to write something helpful arises. Whether, in the story, it is of help, is of no consequence. It can seem that life is hellish, and all the thoughts and sensations and emotions are negative, and nearly unbearable. Yet horrible is bearable, and though difficult to recognise, just another face of love, oneness, consciousness, whatever we're calling it this morning. It really doesn't matter what any story has seemed to be, for what is, is this, sometimes with the memory of pain, what happened, and often, healing. The story can include the encounter with a healer, or many healers, and the crucible of healing is acceptance, tolerance, non-judgement, and love. Or pain of life can be seen as a gift, and as life on the front line, truly living, without filter, with intensity. If there is a message here, it's that there is never anything wrong, and there is never anything wrong with you. It doesn't matter what the life story is, or how villainous or indifferent the character is; nothing, and no one, is a mistake. All the fear and hatred and shame and regret and remorse, all the unhealthy acting out that can seem to happen, no matter how heinous the crime seems, it is just as it must be; and it is a gift, and a miracle. What sometimes seems to happen is a story of great redemption, of the love and care of others internalised, of the validation of others being believed, until the self is loved, and others are loved, and finally the whole world is loved, the flawed, incomprehensible world, a macrocosm of every flawed, incomprehensible individual. And sometimes, this loved creature can slip away, and the story loses its despotic hold, none of it is taken, by no one, very seriously. The crushing aloneness of the human condition is seen as all-one-ness, each crucible of humanity the one crucible, each figment the perfect thing it is. So whatever it is that seems to be happening to you, but is in fact just happening, whatever it is, is a rare and priceless gift. Suffering is a gift as much as bliss. In the story, this appearance, there is always balance, and it is likely to change; what appears is always new. Whatever it is that seems unbearable, the unbearableness itself is the gift. It is all a gift. It is more than that. Whatever words are used to point merely box it in. But hang in there; joy is likely to be around the corner, as it is in every good story.

Confusion's Cure Lives Not In These Confusions.

Concepts are exchanged, words are minced. Oneness, and the lack of the individual, that unfiltered, full-on living wherein there is no time, no space, no one to claim or own the suffering or joy that arises, and what arises is seen clearly as illusory: this is the aim of this blog and of countless writings and meetings and satsangs that seem to happen more frequently "these days". Some of these words seem to resonate, and some don't. There are many descriptions of awakening; there is correction, by someone who isn't there anymore, when the "wrong" words are chosen; various stages of awakening, enlightenment, and liberation are described, for these things seem filtered by the conditioning contained in the all-important story of the life lived, and none of it means a thing. There are amusing exchanges between "neo-Advaitan" and "Advaita Classic" enthusiasts, and this, though great fun, is meaningless too. There are billions of stories, not just the stories of each life, but the stories each life creates and imagines; the stories are overwhelming, we believe they are the be-all and end-all. Never, never will this blog or any words communicate what is. There is no point to any of it, save its intrinsic value for the sake of itself, its existence, whatever "it" is. Therein lies the miracle, the miracle that is sat on and swum in and lived out in timelessness, the miracle that anything exists at all, and that there are tools to apprehend it, as, in reality, nothing exists. "You" will make of it what "you" will, there is no choice, and there is a lot of energy devoted to shattering the one who claims life, so as to leave simply life, lived, by no one. Yet all of this devotion to shattering the dream and living life "awakened" and debating what methods are correct and which words precisely describe the ineffable is, indeed, just another rip-roaring good story.

Oft Expectation Fails And Most Oft There Where Most It Promises, And Oft It Hits Where Hope Is Coldest.

There is no one who has ever controlled their life. No matter what analysis is applied to the story of life, from personal motivations to do with a lack of childhood nurture of more general observations about the human need to "feel better", there is no one who has ever acted from personal will. Such will is a dream, and it is a hard dream to let go of. In fact, no one can choose anything, including to let go: what needs to be let go of is what lets go; and there is no one who can choose to do this. There are individuals suffering in that inability to see oneness. There is a great deal of desperation and despair around the huge desire and longing to come home. This message, from nothing, from no one, to nothing and no one, is a message of hopelessness for the dreamer: there is nothing you can do save what you do, whatever the apparent motivation. The only hopeful part of the message is: the dream can shatter at any "time". Whether engaged in a practice that whittles away the much-maligned ego, or simply going about one's business on the usual roller coaster of triumph, disappointment, sorrow, joy and ambivalence, it can be seen that what is sought, no matter what it is labeled, is what is all around, always. This, whatever seems to be happening, is a symphony of love, in every imaginable and unimaginable manifestation. Life, whatever guise it takes, is enough. What is sought is this, and is timelessly this, infinitely this, eternally this, no matter what conclusions the mind may make; and those conclusions are life, simply in its skeptical guise. There arises great hope in the midst of hopelessness.

Against My Soul's Pure Truth Why Labour You To Make It Wander In An Unknown Field?

What is wrong with ego? It’s oneness, ego-ing. Whether this is seen or not seen, whatever seems to be happening is perfection; there is no one who can be on any path. There is no one who can awaken; awakening is the realisation that there is no one. And even in that, ego can still arise. So what? Oh my God, there’s that pesky ego again. Kill it! Kill it! Just who exactly is going to do that? And who is it, exactly, that needs faith? Faith in what? There is nothing wrong with rituals and worship and guru yoga or whatever practice you care to mention. But they are there to make separation bearable; they fuel the notion that there is a separate person that can "attain enlightenment". They have nothing to do with liberation, except perhaps in Colonel Potter’s School Of Enlightenment and Horsepucky. Liberation is liberation from everything, including the need to keep on some path. It is liberation from the self, even as the self continues to do whatever it is it seems to do, whatever that is. The character continues, but the story is no longer the be-all and end-all. All manner of doubt and dismay may arise, but it is possible for there to be no one who pays them much attention. This is everything, available always to every dreamer, whatever the nature of the dream, whether there is dedicated practice or not. There is no one who can break the cycle of thoughts and ego. Liberation is totally simple; it is this, whatever it is this seems to be; it utterly confounds the mind with its simplicity. It is this, and this is timeless, whereas the mind will see it as something to be obtained later, or perhaps lost later. The mind will concoct rules and rituals and practices to keep what already has the distinct advantage of being everything. There is no getting away from oneness. This is it, everything, always.

Our Virtues Would Be Proud, If Our Faults Whipped Them Not.

No matter how thrilling or painful, blissful or hellish the appearance is, it is only appearance. It is happening, in its infinite extra-ordinariness, its myriad complexity, its tumultuous emotions and dull valleys of ennui, to no one, no matter how much the story seems to be about a singular, special person. It is just happening, but not to you or me. Life is its own purpose, whether it is simple, unfiltered and unbounded, or contracted and boxed in, desperately seeking itself. The goal is met. The dream, or the story, whether it is noticed or not, whether cause and effect (the usual perception) seems to be in play or whether the happenings seem unrelated, uninterfered with by an unengaged mind; no matter how to the point the story seems to be, or how confusing, it is what it must be; and the dream, or the story, far from being dismissed or belittled, can be embraced and cherished. Embracing and cherishing can arise. There is no one to choose any of this. Everything that appears is a meaningless miracle, including thoughts that judge things to be mundane and meaningful. It is an insoluble paradox, inscrutable in its essence beyond any concept, feeling or sensation. There is nothing you can do. And there is so much wonder.

I Do Beseech You To Learn Of Me, Who Stand I' the Gaps To Teach You, The Stages Of Our Story.

Gospel Song

What I thought was lost
What I was searching for
What I yearned for, just had, just had to find
I see it so clearly
It was never, never gone
The incompleteness was only in my mind

It's this. Just this, oh this is all there is
And oh, it was ever so.
I'm home, I'm home, I have always been home
Despite the confusion and the woe.

For life is its own sweet purpose.
Just life, just exactly as it is.
Whatever arises, it always surprises
Always new, always whole, not amiss

And I, I was never really here.
I was just an idea of my own.
What I see, I see clear
There is no veil of fear
Not lonely, not ever alone

It's beyond right and wrong
It's not written in any tome
And the dream of my precious self is gone.
I'm home, sweet home
I have always been home
I can't tell you, not in words, not in song

You can see or not see, through that wall
Can you see you are one with it all.

And what all this is
Is acceptance and love.
Everything happens as it must.
All we see, all the struggle, the joy and the strife,
Is in balance, there is no need to trust.

Just see, can you see,
It's beyond family,
It's a mystery, it can never be known.
And none of it's wrong
It is just what it is
There is nothing, oh nothing to own.

I am home, sweet home, I have always been home.
What I've searched for has always been here.
Closer than silence, nearer than near
No longer in pain do I roam
I am gone, and that freedom, that is home.

You can see or not see, through that wall
Can you see you are one with it all.

And You All Know, Security Is Mortals' Chiefest Enemy.

In this beautiful, ugly, chaotic, orderly, ambiguous and pointless adventure most label reality, duality itself is the only point. Duality is oneness, apprehending itself. And that is the meaning, the secret of life: it exists. The fragile constructs that make nothingness a solid table or an overwhelming feeling are the miracles. The appearance, the mere fact that anything exists at all, is stunning, and awesome. Look carefully at the very nature of matter, and there is nothing there. What looks, changes it; ask any particle physicist. When there is no one, no choice, no thing at all, whatever unfolds, unfolds in unspeakable freedom. The persistent arising of choices and dilemmas and challenges are the joys of duality. Whatever their conclusion, however heartbreaking or enchanting, is unimportant; there is no one to shepherd the journey, no goal that exists other than to fulfil itself, for itself. Don't despair if this isn't seen. If the journey still seems remarkably important, if the character you play isn't seen to be every character and everything, life still unfolds just as it must, whether "you" feel better or not. Feeling better may indeed seem to be the goal, but if it is pursued, you are not pursuing. There are no mistakes, including thoughts that there are, indeed, dreadful mistakes. The task of letting go, so desperately desired, is difficult when the thing that lets go is the thing that needs to be let go of. In fact, it is impossible. But letting go may seem to happen. There is nothing an idea can do to dispel itself. So, if there still seems to be time, for want of anything better to do, pursue whatever goal presents itself; there are no mistakes.

As By The Strength Of Their Illusion Shall Draw Him On To His Confusion.

There are groups of people, the creationists spring to mind, that create a myth, however incongruous it is with established fact, and believe it fully; they do this to protect certainties without which their world would fall apart. Isolation and separation is honed and perfected, making a small, very much known world, safe, and without any annoying confusion or doubt. In fact, most individuals (and the institutions they form) are all about creating a known system with absolute rules and laws, comforting, safe. It is a way of making sense of our feeling of being apart, the alienation of being a separate entity; it is an attempt to satisfy that longing to come home, that persistent sense that something is missing. There is an urge to make a safe nest with known factors, an attempt by the mind for it to all make perfect sense. What these words point to is the certainties falling apart. There is no advice, but it can't hurt to do what 12-step programmes and other practices encourage: to be honest, open and willing. Honesty in its best sense probably means being truthful about motives, and most motives boil down to protecting the personal identity and the little world it operates in. Openness and willingness can simply allow room for another possibility, whatever that may be. And that may be relinquishing everything important, the value system by which you live, the very person that lives. Being trapped in the human condition, no matter how comfortable the prison might be, no matter how bearable separation is, is still incarceration. Paradoxically, the prison is perfection, everything as it seems right now is just as it must be. But it can either be happening to you, or just happening.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease.

There is no right or wrong, and no right way or wrong way to live life. Whichever way it's lived is what must happen. Most seekers are stuck in the story, consumed with the correct definitions of various states of mind or being, and terribly concerned with doing "the next right thing". They are worried that without a map, they will go terribly wrong. Well, despair not; maps can arise, along with everything else. Each character comes with conditioning, and the story of life will probably continue to unfold along the same lines it's always done, but perhaps with greater efficiency since there is little interference from a troubled, hand-wringing dreamer. Change can happen; great sea changes of behaviour can arise, in fact, and a "lost" life can be found, or a "useless" person can become of service. The thoughts that seem to guide behaviour belong to no one, they are gifts, from nothing, for no one. No matter how willful the action seems, it is not yours, for you don't exist. In fact, the less done, the better. If thoughts of doing nothing seem to be what's coming up, that's probably a "good" sign. Maybe thoughts of relaxing and having fun can come up. Perhaps freedom means not freedom to live a "good" life, or freedom to channel creativity, or freedom from selfish behaviour, but freedom from the chains of needing any of those things for purpose. Purpose will arise, it just isn't the Big Answer to the Great Question. The secret to life is everywhere. It is this. Whatever this is, or seems to be. It is the perfect fit, no matter how uncomfortable.

Thy Life Is Dear; For All That Life Can Rate Worth Name Of Life In Thee Hath Estimate.

In the stories of people's lives, when they have had enough of their self-consciousness, and are fed up with the lifelong alienation and feeling of being apart, they come to that inevitable stumbling block - the fear of death, pinnacle of many a therapy session. The dubious advantage of knowing we are going to die is at the heart of the pathos of the human condition. In separation, this is made bearable by believing the stories that have no end: Heaven, or many lives led in succession. Mentally healthy persons are accepting, and face the fear, without having to ameliorate it. In fear and anger, whole populations defy inevitable death by devoting themselves, blinkered, to causes given such profound status that they are deemed worth dying for; inevitable death is made bearable by the distraction of the story. Layers are peeled off the onion by individuals by any number of practices: therapy, self-inquiry, or even the rigours of life's presented situations. This usually begins with some discomfort with the dishonesty that permeates life, the lies we tell ourselves to make living in the face of not continuing bearable. So life is faced. We find a confidant, or a therapist, or a teacher, or a sponsor, and confess our worst sins, mostly to ourselves. In the midst of this, all the layers of dishonesty peel away, and we confront the shadow, and know we are capable of all the worst; hatred, selfishness, violence. As we accept our humanity, the the act of acceptance reveals another layer; unconditional love, as we fully accept ourselves, warts and all. Another layer goes; we see that everything was a gift, and unfolded the best way it could. The unconditional love spreads, and embraces all the people, places and things that our lives touch, or that touch our lives. We see our intrinsic worth, and the worth of others. Any feelings that arise, however intense, are seen as part of life, and not to be avoided. We have peace of mind, at least occasionally. There are few layers left. Another layer goes; perhaps being happy, and having peace of mind, are not the goals. Perhaps there are no goals. Perhaps there is no story. Perhaps there is just this; the end of acceptance, perfect and total. And the last layer goes, leaving nothing. When the last vestige of identification with our complex and fascinating personality leaves, and the inside of the onion is seen as nothing, that is when, so many opine, awakening can happen. Whatever the hell that is. Yet this universal journey through the truth, humanity's longing for redemption, and the final letting go of everything that you ever considered of value - even that epic journey is another story. The stillness inside the onion is timeless. The motion of redemption is, like any other part of the appearance, an appearance. Perhaps the final revelation, or recognition, is that no matter whether there is an incredible story of awakening, the miracle is always this.

There Is Nothing Either Good Or Bad, But Thinking Makes It So.

Everything, absolutely everything in the appearance - what many label as reality - is exactly as it should be. There is always balance. For every billow of carbon that is emitted, a tree thrives, soaking up the carbon; for every greedy Western oil-dependent institution, there are dozens of grass-roots movements making sustainable energy viable. For every bored overwhelmed modern individual, with the attention span of a gnat and morals borne of expediency, there are thoughtful, concerned individuals, paring back the technology in their lives and nurturing their relationships with each other and their environment. Also, there are those who thrive on the newly available technologies, and are not overwhelmed by the surfeit of information; what information is needed or wanted is utilised, the rest pragmatically dismissed. For every media-hyped amoral and selfish criminal youth, there are hard-working, engaged, mentally balanced, loved and loving young people. For every sociopath there is a selfless teacher. Each population revealed to be suffering is responded to, with varying degrees of efficiency, by compassionate individuals and institutions, keen to relieve the suffering. For every soul who creates art of genius, channelled, instinctively and without conscious interference making beauty of nothing, there are hopeless hacks eking out what is barely recognisable as language or form. The intense multifariousness of the appearance is beautiful. And paradoxically, in just being, in not claiming, in not taking the appearance too seriously and thus not being imprisoned by the pathos of the human condition, the human condition seems more poignant, exquisite in its insolubility. Compassion is all there is, compassion seems the best label for what cannot be communicated; this, all that seems, is compassion.

To Sue To Live, I Find I Seek To Die; And, Seeking Death, Find Life: Let It Come On.

There is very little to write that hasn't been written before about this. Reading about it isn't the message; writing about beingness isn't beingness, yet it is. There's no words that can communicate this, or bring about some moment of enlightenment when "everything changes". Advaita Classic adherents (apparent) will tell you that if any vestige of the ego remains, enlightenment is not possible. Yet whatever seems to come up is just as it should be. Whatever the seeming appearance, that is what is. The Advaita police will say that every word that is written has been written before, and is meaningless; and continuing to write about what is not a concept or a feeling or an experience is hopelessly futile. Perhaps, but what is wrong with hopeless futility? Whatever seems to happen, no matter how navel-gazing, no matter how ironic or paradoxical, is simply what seems to happen. No matter if this is seen or not, or if it is seen, incongruous thoughts and feelings and apparent experiences arise; this is it, no matter what, exactly as it is. There could not be anything "wrong", or "right" for that matter. The Advaita police (nothing wrong with them either) will whine a bit about spending ungodly amounts of apparent time practicing yoga and clearing the mind and dissolving ego concerns, and probably feel miffed that this seems to happen spontaneously for some dreamers, who never worked hard at being enlightened. It's all just more interesting stories - it doesn't matter what seems to be happening at all - but to answer those who have worked so hard, consider that life itself, however it was presented, may be sufficient practice. The disciplines honed with a gifted guru can also be gleaned from the circumstances of life, especially if they are apparently extremely challenging. But there is no formula to this. There is no right way. There is no wrong way. There are no millenia, no past rolling behind us, filled with the lineage of properly qualified gurus or teachers. There is the spark of memory of what was apparently learned, and the spark of memory of learning it. There is no inspiring teacher, or ready student; there are those characters. There is no time for these supposed events and profound experiences to have unfolded in. There is no karma, or past lives; there is memory of learning of such things, or memory of leading other lives. Just a memory, a thought, an image, and that is all. There is what is. This. Whatever it seems.

Some There Be That Shadows Kiss; Such Have But a Shadow's Bliss.

In the story of life that seems to carry on without "me" doing much of anything, occasionally, there are revelations. They are just as important or unimportant as anything else that appears, but they are considerably more interesting than a lot of it. A thought that comes up frequently is: everything is a gift. The memories of past events are just energy, being memory; but the thoughts seem to tie themselves together into a conclusion once in awhile, accompanied by a strong feeling of gratitude. Gratitude to no one, just gratitude. My character is privileged to have had so much suffering, so many errors on the scale of my own moral compass, and so much destructive behaviour. It makes my story one of redemption, deliverance and rebirth, one that is palpably distinct, and not subtly hidden in the small, daily reflections of universal movement. Like an anvil on the head, my salvation was necessary; the apparent choice before me was death, or life. It is a difficult and challenging role, but as there is balance, the rewards are as satisfying as the hell was punishing. This is massive, and would be enough for anyone, in separation. But there is freedom even from the shackles of redemption; there is liberation from the prison of any story, no matter how refreshing to the spirit the story is. The freedom contained within the plot of my life is savoured, and the freedom from taking the story as being "me" is more intensely relished, by no one; relishing arises. Fulfillment, even borne of the most obvious chain of events, need not be claimed by anyone. Fulfillment is everything, everywhere. It is this.

When They Next Wake, All This Derision Shall Seem a Dream And Fruitless Vision.

Who is it that can be hurt? Pain may arise, but there is no one who can be hurt. In separation, however, the hurt is personal, and sometimes unbearable. We seem to need all kinds of help. Help is always there. The apparent story is a kinder one than it seems it used to be. And my character is not at all averse to asking for help!

That paradox of the character in the story seeming to carry on, and yet there being no one and nothing, isn’t something the mind can resolve. Yet it is blindingly, screamingly obvious; duality is nonduality, twoness is oneness, apprehending itself. We have dreamed ourselves up. If it doesn't seem obvious, perhaps, if you want, you could inquire why that is. What does it matter if an apparent individual is “awake” or not? What is it, exactly, that you are looking for? And perhaps “exactly” is the operating word; some apparent individuals have a very specific idea of what enlightenment, or whatever we’re calling it today, is “like”. It’s like this. This is it.

No one is “enlightened”. No one can awaken. Indeed, that is what is seen. There is no one that can awaken. There is no one, and everything, absolutely everything in the appearance is love. There is no samsara. Some apparent individuals still have the idea that they are separate, most of them in fact, but there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing that is not Oneness, the Source, Consciousness, aliveness, beingness, whatever the preferred term is.

“I” am not “here”, “I” am lived. There is no choice in any form, just an appearance of choice. What arises in that is lightness, wonder, but it is also very ordinary. A big “wow” that becomes a constant, little “wow” as Tony Parsons' wife Claire says. My character is celebrated, in all her tics (fewer), neuroses (getting “better”) and eccentricities (getting more pronounced!). I do not type; typing happens. I do not sit in front of the computer; there is sitting. And on and on, for everything that seems to arise. But it’s difficult to use language – necessarily dualistic – without resorting to the personal pronoun, and it’s also bad writing, much too stiff and contrived. What the words point to is an energetic shift. It cannot be described. It’s somewhat akin to all that is perceived looping back around upon itself, becoming more itself, and at the same “time” its unsubstantiality is apprehended. Crap, that’s still not it but it’s pretty good!

So hang in there. Apparently, it's worth it. But not hanging in there is perfect too.

Death Should Have Play For Lack Of Work.

It doesn't matter what words are written in this blog or elsewhere to the effect that everything is OK just as it is, perfect in fact, absolutely fitting and the only appearance that could be. The stories will always be ones of questioning, rejecting, resisting, and finally finding a story that fits the needs of comfort, exuberance, or ambivalence. It matters not if, this message being beyond the usual ideas of right and wrong, of choice defining the human condition, and of notions of personal guilt and responsibility, the message is violently rejected; either the story is seen through, or it is not. It is of no consequence whether the dream is dreamed lucidly or unwitting. Whether meaninglessness is embraced as freedom or rejected as despair, embracing or rejecting are not things that can be chosen. Whether it is accepted by the mind, with clarity, that there is no one, and all that seems to happens just happens - to no one - or not, this is what is, whatever mental energies of acceptance or resistance arise. Whether our "true nature", that eternal, infinite, conscious awareness that defies all description is apprehended or not, doesn't mean the source isn't there. We are all that is, whatever the appearance, whatever brand of multifarious possibility seems to be arising. There is no hope, unless there is. And there is.

Nor Hath Love's Mind Of Any Judgement Taste.

There are so many ideas of what "enlightenment" or "awakening" or "liberation" is supposed to be like. We are, with few exceptions, terribly caught up in the story. The story is what we think we are. If on a journey of spiritual seeking, we are dismayed by the hold the story has on us; this is a clever plot twist, worthy of M. Night Shyamalan or Charlie Kaufman. No matter how clever the story, it is a story. Beingness, liberation, awakening, enlightenment, whatever we're calling it today is simply what is. There's loads of ideas of what it looks like, feels like, is like. Some of my favourites are: there is no concern for material things. The world is renounced. The world is experienced through heightened senses; auras are seen, the visual world blurs into some kind of white noise oneness, or else every leaf is stark, more itself, real-life HD. There is a detached compassion, a general unperturbance, an inability to be hurt that must certainly come from not identifying with a separate personality. A great charismatic energy emanates from the enlightened one, and everybody is drawn to them. Or, the no-personhood of the enlightened one is so pronounced that apparent others barely notice their presence. It is surmised that there is little thinking; every action is entirely spontaneous, natural, and unselfconscious. Or, when the "ah-ha" moment happens, what is changes somehow to some glorious, fantastical, enchanted version of itself, and the self, gone for good, is somehow coalesced into everything else. This is what is looked for. This is what the mind looks for in the future, but what is looked for never left. This is it, just as it is. Exactly as it is. It is enough, "now".

Ensconcing Ourselves Into Seeming Knowledge, When We Should Submit Ourselves To An Unknown Fear.

The whole "there is no one" thing seems a great, immutable block for a lot of individuals, and it isn't surprising. Golly, how we seem to need something to do. We are encouraged to take responsibility for our lives, to take back our power, and to make healthy choices; or else to let go of control, have faith, trust, and here's the proof things go better for it. We are told we have so much wrong-thinking and it needs to be dissected and peeled back a bit at a time, and then, only then, will we see the Absolute or however we are referring to it today. Locked in that idea of a separate self, anything that is attempted to annihilate the self only reinforces the idea that it exists. Despite the favourite colours, personal struggles, singular personalities, overwhelming feelings, inextricable complexities and giant piles of undone life administration, despite poverty and injustice and casual homicide, despite joyous discovery and the pleasure of company, despite all those things on the evening news that scream and reinforce the notion we are separate individuals involved in a personal journey of survival and fulfillment, we are not. "Letting go and letting God" is a close second to immediate, complete, fulfilled existence, that is "always" and everything. This is free fall, this is what it is just as it is, and we are lived. Yet that includes the confusion and fear. That includes the despair and frustration. Ask any question, there is no answer; yet the answer is always embracing you. The play of life, it seems, has become enjoyable. There is no guarantee, but that is how it seems. It matters not what "you" "choose" to do; it will be the perfect choice.