Wednesday, 20 May 2009
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.