There Is No Wrong, But Every Thing Is Right.

Whatever It Seems

Whatever it seems, it matters not.
Not in the usual way;
However desperate, hurtful, fraught,
Swept wholly in the fray,

Anxiety will take its toll,
A cantilevered cause,
Alone, afraid, pitiable soul,
Then: pregnant, blissful pause,

And trembling with grave import,
The wayward, angry child,
This life to sort,
Its chaos so reviled,

Will be a stormy teacup.
A misinterpretation.
A tiny hiccup
Holding all creation.

Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From The Heart: The Effect Doth Operate Another Way.

Very, very interesting stuff floating around, appearance all, yet fascinating. The Rules Of Nonduality I published in a blog entry a few days ago were latched onto, apparently, by some folks at the Church of the Churchless. The gentle and loving mocking of everything that seems to be is how the expression comes out here, but it was taken terribly seriously by some commenters; see the comments here, here and here. Well, indeed, my feelings were terribly hurt. Don't they realise I'm an important oracle for Oneness? Don't they realise just how terribly admired and respected I am? Don't they have compassion for a soul such as I, whose story is so filled with suffering, yet which I have courageously risen above? Why don't they like me? EVERYBODY MUST LIKE ME!!! Before any readers are captured on this river of words, the musings of the character in the story of "my" life, please note - that these sort of feelings and thoughts may fleetingly arise, but they are ironically humourous; the transitory feelings are noted (by no one; noting happens) as they slide away quickly, with nothing to cling to; certainly nothing to claim them is here, or anywhere. The whole thing is extremely amusing as only the Cosmic Joke can be, and words will never capture something that isn't a concept. This will certainly be dismissed by those apparent individuals who are still in the thrall of the despotic mind. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being in the thrall of the despotic mind, by the way. It seems to be nearly the sum total of what we call the world and its inhabitants, their apparent thoughts, their overwhelming feelings, their quite beautiful human struggle to make sense of the whole life thing. Some words about absolute reality or whatever we're calling it today use quite strong words, pointing with vehemence at the futility of seeking, trying to perhaps bring about with shock the shift of perception that makes seeing oneness possible; that there is no one, just oneness, life-ing is reiterated. Some use gentle and welcoming language, some are exceedingly matter-of-fact, but sadly, there is no way to communicate what so many try to write and talk about; there is no way to describe the ineffable. Those seekers like the folks (some of them) at Church of the Churchless will say that that's all very convenient, not being able to adequately defend something by saying it's ineffable. Yet that's another guise of oneness, to hide itself playfully behind the mind, and it is as full of beauty as is everything else that seems to appear. It was quite poignant when one commenter stated that there was very little bliss in the world, but a lot of suffering; perhaps, in the appearance, bliss just doesn't make the news as often. Little thoughts arise of wanting to help, wanting to lift the veil, wanting to make clear the obvious, the lack of separation, the exuberant dance of life, just as it is; yet these are ego-mutterings too, sliding away, although sometimes not before some hopefully helpful words are written, by no one.

Words, Words, Words.

So many words out there, just here, everywhere, questioning, debating, judging, and sometimes making conclusions. Where do all these words come from? Where does anything come from? It is simply what it is. So many words about thoughts; thoughts are just "mind-farts", as Charlie Hayes (see links to left) says; thoughts create more thoughts, trying to be more than thoughts; a belief system is constructed, to keep the unsafe world away, the world that is not me. The little thing that thinks it thinks, that thinks it chooses not to believe the thoughts - a piece of advice that often comes up - the rather sweet little thing that lashes out when threatened, or sometimes withdraws, sometimes despairs, sometimes rejoices when the world aligns with the expectations the belief system has begot; that sweet and vulnerable thing is the separate self, that claims the thoughts, believes or sometimes rejects them, and finds the feelings either fabulous or unbearable. It wants to live, it wants the world to say it is OK; this self-awareness, which, in the story of the world is mankind's burden or else his saviour, this thing is the only sense the mind can make of duality. Good and bad, right and wrong, subject and object, we grapple with the thoughts that swirl to make sense of what is, and to make sense of the awareness of what is; it seems difficult to just live. So many words are written to figure it all out, to pin it down, to make it understandable and safe. Yet what is, is, and the words themselves can be dismissed as useless or praised as pointers to the ultimate truth, the absolute of being, the source of it all; the words are quibbled with, dissected, concepts honed and streamlined until they are very narrow indeed; and the actions the concepts and words engender are bemoaned as wrong, so very wrong, each mirror of intolerance not tolerated, each judgement judged harshly, and with anger. Yet all of this is what is, and what is, is what is. So much struggle to get IT right, even though perfection whispers through every atom of being, I am, I am, is it not enough that I am? The intolerance, the endless struggle, the fear, and don't forget the joy, the bliss, the happiness; so often, in the messages these endless words engender, there is a goal of ending suffering, removing fear, seeing beyond the small self and its fearful ego concerns, and the terrible actions these fears sometimes enable. This may seem to come to pass, or not. There will be words about nonduality, words to try to describe the ineffable, words to dismiss the ineffable as a mere concept, words that say we are right, and you are wrong, so wrong you must be stopped, so wrong you must be punished. And all of this that seems to be is without meaning; yet whole and just as it is. Filled with beauty and grace, or whatever inadequate word one wishes to saddle it with.

Pity The Dearth That I Have Pined In, By Longing For That Food So Long A Time.

Past entries worth a look. Apparently.

No Volition.

Whatever's Happening is happening. Period.

Pointless, paradoxical, lovely.

You're already there. Or here, or whatever.

When, exactly, is the present?

Trying (in vain) to court controversy, just for the fun of it.

Just give up. Then keep it to yourself!

Prison is freedom, freedom, prison.

No mistakes, even the conviction that there are mistakes.

Obvious. Really obvious.

Everything is light.

Rather than reiterate yet again what I keep saying over and over, peruse the entries of the "past" for a snapshot of pointers. Have fun. Please!

Let Go Thy Hold When A Great Wheel Runs Down A Hill, Lest It Break Thy Neck With Following It.

What Lets Go

Needy: pleasure claimed and pain resisted,
Systems keep the wicked world at bay.
A sense of unfulfillment in the day,
Despite the many resources enlisted.

Who is it that needs such validation?
Who is it resisting letting go?
Who is it that reaps, to further sow?
Who is it takes such consideration?

Let go, we are told, nothing is wrong.
What you seek is here, it never left.
Separation means you are bereft.
Wholeness, here, is all; creation's song.

Problematic paradox: let go
But what is it that clings to surety?
Surely what lets go, that sense of "me",
Is what must drop away, revealing lo:

All that is, without unneeded caging.
Everything, without the added "me".
Boundless, all existence here to be,
Unsullied by the helplessness and raging.

Everything is already forgiven.
What you are, and do, whatever hence,
Needn't be behind protective fence.
If it is, that too is what is given.

Cherish every goal unto success,
Knowing it is joy unto itself.
Take the childlike wonder from the shelf.
You are more, if even you seem less.

Seeming As Burdened With Lesser Weight But Not With Lesser Woe.

What is described here is the simplest way of seeing reality, or whatever we're calling the stuff and substance of life today. Simple, ordinary, immediate, miraculous; wherein we have dreamed ourselves up, and given ourselves the perfect playground. Where all stories are possible, questing and striving unfold in joy, and pain is borne and perhaps learned from. It is very, deeply difficult, the letting go thing, as the thing that lets go is what is let go of; it is anathema to most properly socialised individuals, and stirs up all kinds of fear, this notion that there is no personal responsibility, there is no personal volition, will or choice of any kind; that the thoughts that spur action are not from some separate entity, but part of a grand play, a play that has no moral, and that is simply bursting energy manifest. It is difficult to see that that essence of existence, what many call "I am" is something constant and omnipresent, and that the things we hang on to existence are meaningless, although perhaps terribly interesting, no matter how lofty the goal, how positive the energy, or how altruistic the action. It is disturbing, the notion that everything is just as it should be, when one sees the bodies of children killed in war laid out in a mosque, their existence denied by the powers that be. It is difficult to accept the darker side of human nature, the reactions of those denied their wants, and even their needs; yet nothing need be ignored. The thoughts given to change the story into a better one are the gifts of life, and the actions taken that end suffering bring an energy whose quality is so uplifting and joyful it cannot be denied. Personal will and struggle are oneness, the source, consciousness, whatever we're calling it, in disguise; perhaps when this is seen, there is a lightness, a lessening of fear, that makes more action possible; this is all the gift. It is all the gift, whatever seems to be happening. The reality that sings to us through the senses, the feelings, and thought is wondrous, for nothing should exist at all.

I Am Not So Nice, To Change True Rules For Old Inventions.

THE NONDUALITY RULES
(Neo-Advaita Subsection)

1) Nothing exists.
2) Everything that seems to exist is illusory.
3) This appearance is meaningless, yet miraculous, and is its own purpose.
4) All apparent dual reality is oneness.
5) Any thought, feeling, sensation, or action that seems to occur is perfect.
6) No matter how paradoxical the happening, it is perfect, i.e., fear-based ego reactions "after" oneness has been "seen" or apprehended.
7) There is no time. All there is, is this, this ever present "moment".
8) There is no space. Space is part of the illusion; what is perceived is an appearance only.
9) Everything is allowed, as everything is one, including rejecting oneness.
10) There are no separate individuals; this is the dream. The mind/body organism is lived.
11) The sense of separation is the longing for oneness.
12) As oneness is everything, there is no true separation; everything the seeker looks for has never left, as it is everything.
13) When writing about oneness, simply dropping the personal pronoun doesn't mean the apparent writer has "awakened". There is no one, so no one can "awaken".
14) Oneness (or enlightenment, liberation, consciousness, as variously referred to by different writers) cannot be described, as it is not a concept, a feeling, or an experience.
15) Paradoxically, the story in time seems to continue whether oneness is apprehended (by no one) or not. Often, the story seems to go more smoothly, and seems much more informed by compassion and unconditional love, but there is no guarantee.
16) The overriding quality of oneness is unconditional love. Unconditional love is just that, unconditional, and accepts everything, as it is everything.
17) What the seeker is seeking is life, just exactly as it is, in all its imperfection and multifariousness; thus, "awakening" can seem to be a bit of an anticlimax!
18) The intense feeling of aloneness is exactly the same for every apparent individual, so is actually all-one-ness.
19) Clever wordplay like "aloneness/all-one-ness" is entirely optional.
20) There is absolutely no way to teach this, as it is already what every apparent thing and individual is.
21) There is absolutely no point in writing about oneness. There is absolutely no point in any apparent activity, except in its intrinsic value.
22) There is no right or wrong; all is unconditional love, in endless guises.
23) There are no goals, not even the loftiest ones, i.e., ending suffering, stopping war, saving the planet. Who is it that would do these things? There is no one. Whatever is meant to happen, happens.
24) This message is exceedingly unpopular. It means that everything the separate individual ever valued is valueless, yet wondrous; meaningless, yet extraordinary.
25) There is no one, so no one reads writings about oneness; reading arises.
26) No one writes about oneness; words are written.
27) The best part of spiritual practice is that the seeker may get fed up and give up. However, there is nothing wrong with spiritual practice; there is nothing wrong with anything.
28) There is no one, so there is no personal responsibility or volition; every choice made, chooses oneness in another guise.
29) When life is a miracle, life-affirming actions usually seem to be the story; yet there is no guarantee; in duality, there must be dark for there to be light.
30) There is nothing, despite appearances, including these rules.

For crap's sake, "everybody," enjoy yourselves and try not to be too hard on yourselves, and "others". If there is a goal, not taking it all too seriously just might be it.


All my love, always, as all there is is love - Suzanne

I With Great Truth Catch Mere Simplicity.

It's either oneness or it isn't, and it is. There is either no time, or time; there is no time. All that seems to happen happens in this everlasting moment, all there ever is, no past, no present, no future. It is all we ever have; and what we have is everything. So many stories seem to unfold, yet there is no unfolding; there is only this. So many apparent happenings, or experiences, are lauded above others; yet whatever happens is the one, in another guise. Whatever choices seem to be made choose oneness, in another form. There can be no end to suffering, yet another story, without an ending to bliss. And there is no goal, no direction, no desirable outcome; it is as it must be, and life's purpose is itself. Every apparent happening is existence in its infinite play; there must be separation for life to apprehend itself. We are lived in perfection. The agonising over the existence of a separate self is just as it should be. The dissolution of a separate self, the ultimate goal of so many, is yet another story; unimportant, miraculous. Whether oneness is sensed or not, matters not. Whatever this life seems to be, it is as it must be. Nothing is a mistake, even as apparent mistakes are made; whatever is happening is happening; and whether the illusion of duality is seen through or not, the goal is always met.

He Shall Not Need To Grieve At Knowing Of Thy Choice.

The choicelessness, the lack of volition, the futility of self in oneness is not necessarily a cause for fear or sorrow. To realise that whatever remarkable and careful steps we have taken to ensure we are on the right path, and that whatever choices seem to be presented and made are not the design of our singular will, is freedom, not powerlessness. However paradoxical it may seem, the realisation that there is no one, no individual who has ever made a choice, is the realisation that life is unfettered; unbound by the possibility of control that any tiny boxed-in individual could wield. The mind, ego, self, whatever we're labeling it today, will go to great and crafty lengths to not relinquish this illusion of control. The story of taking responsibility is most common; the mind concocts a belief system, replete with stories of suffering, stories of lives lived unfulfilled, stories of compassion and the need to connect with others, stories of husbandry and responsible care for the planet, and make it the most potent excuse for never seeing the beauty of being, just as it is. In choicelessness, nothing changes. It could not. There will always be the story of individuals taking responsibility, balancing recklessness and selfishness with care and repair. The world will continue in a story, many many stories, as it always has, whether "you" have anything to do with it or not.

Thou Shalt Never Get Such A Secret From Me But By A Parable.

Striving, striving striving; this is never enough. It's never good enough, it's never big enough, it's never happy enough. It's certainly never harmonious enough. Life sucks, and then you die; at least there is black and self-depricating humour in that sentiment, a fatalism, an acceptance of the futility inherent in the story of life unfolding, in the pathos of the human condition. Yet there is great joy available too, available as the balance to the despair, and we tend to want that safety, that love, that obvious feeling of comfort and well-being to stay, and to never change. There are so many approaches. There are some types of personality that love a challenge, that thrive on adversity, that need an obstacle to unleash the full potential of their gifts and talents. We like these heroes, those who meet all impediments head-on, rarely flinching, who are courageous in some organic, natural, easy way, who overcome, who channel the Universe, who succeed. We like the antiheroes, the bad boys and girls, whose naughtiness conceals a heart of gold; they are "good" after all. We hope for an Age of Aquarius, long predicted in our collective consciousness, where petty, fear-driven aspirations and concerns are no more; we live in love, we nurture each other, we value others and our home, we tenderly care for ourselves and our neighbours, and strangers, for there are no real strangers. This is the taste of nonduality for some apparent individuals; the true recognition that we are one consciousness, and in that recognition, certain actions naturally follow. We would not allow another to go without basic needs; we would not rape and pillage the Earth, our home; we would glean all our evolution and growth through improvement. Striving, striving, it can always be better: where is the ceiling? Who knows what miracles man can accomplish if unfettered by fear, unconcerned with mere survival, and unrequired to fight for space and territory, which is now all naturally shared? Or perhaps a Utopian vision of gentle peace; the lack of the need for striving, where everyone is content, and stimulated, by the mere existence of a leaf, a flower, a child's laugh, the gaze of a loved one. It is enough, whatever it is, as long as it's sweet and good and beautiful, loving and gentle and nurturing. Whatever the vision, whatever the envisioned goal, whatever wonderful world is wanted, it cannot surpass the perfection of what is. These goals and visions arise; there is striving, there is muddling, there is reaching out to bridge the chasm that seems to exist between us. Yet all this is the greatest beauty. Even the discontent is perfect. Apparent change may or may not seem to happen; but whatever seems to happen, only seems. It is the perfect game, the perfect life, the perfect world, the perfect being. Exactly as it is.

The Gods Will Have Fulfill'd Their Secret Purposes.

In many circles, mental health circles especially, there is an emphasis, an observation, that part of the human condition is a need for meaning. It would seem the legacy of our self-consciousness; the by-product of our dubious advantage of knowing that one day, we will die. An individual, alone, will either consciously construct a belief system and employ certain actions to achieve certain goals, or will, with less self-awareness, be caught up in the flow of life with less personal responsibility exercised. This is but a grand generalisation of the story of humanity, of two possibilities often manifested. Perhaps meaning is less important if there is no one, not no ego, not no "self", but no one. Perhaps meaning is intrinsic to whatever the manifestation happens to be; perhaps life is its own purpose. Perhaps if no one is willfully constructing a map for living life, life is lived. Perhaps it is best to trust life, to have faith that whatever happens is what must happen, and that no one, however wise, can ever predict the portents of any occurance; perhaps, more deeply, there is no one who has to have faith and trust. This message is about no one. This message is deeply unpopular, and offers no hope to the individual. There is no one here that will advise to love deeply, to engage utterly, to discern, somehow, one's true purpose, and to busy oneself pursuing that purpose to its fruition. There is no one who can self-inquire, although self-inquiry may arise; there is no one who can love well and truly and deeply, with the help of other apparent individuals, at last conclude that love is the answer, love is the question, love is the way; although loving others may arise, with a feeling of fulfillment and bliss, and an unquestioning certainty that this deep love and the actions it suggests are the absolute purpose. There is no purpose needed, other than the existence of anything at all, and the utter wonder in that.

Sir, It Is A Mystery.

There is no way anyone will ever be enlightened. There is absolutely nothing you can do to achieve enlightenment. There is no amount of practice, meditation, reading, sitting in satsangs, or teaching that can illuminate what is already oneness. There is no need to dissolve the ego; there is no need to strip back the self, to reprogramme wrong thinking, or to get rid of attitudes that make enlightenment impossible. There is no one who has ever been enlightened. There is no need for anyone to awaken. There has never been anyone, there is just this. This is nirvana, just as it is; this is everything every dream person has ever sought; either it is not seen, or seen, by no one. There are many twists in the stories that make apparent separation more bearable. There is therapy, there is "being true to yourself," there is "getting to know yourself," there is self-inquiry, there are many, many practices that take the story from a relatively "bad" one to a relatively "good" one. There is a greater possibility, and it is what this already is. It sings and breathes, it corrupts and shames, it murders and creates, it accepts and prejudices, it soars and triumphs; it "everythings". It may solidly seem that there is a contracted point of view, a prison of aloneness, a fumbling to reach out, to connect, to have "deep engagement" with others. These overwhelming, blissful states and lofty personal goals are marvelous. Yet they are no more important than the fly's wing twitch. Nor are they less important. That aloneness is all-one-ness. The quality of "I exist" is the quality of all. Those apparent separate lights of beingness, a little beacon in each mind/body, are the same all-encompassing light. Light that has no space, and all space; that exists infinitely, eternally, without substance; this, just as it is, is eternity, all apparent moments in one. Whatever seems to be is exquisite in its absolute appropriateness, its utter suitability, for it can be nothing else. When "it" happens, seeing this, finally just being this, the blatant simplicity and obviousness to the answer of all questions is astounding, extraordinary. There was never anything to seek.

O, Beat Away The Busy Meddling Fiend That Lays Strong Siege Unto This Wretch's Soul.

This message can be so complicated, elaborate, and twisted. There sure seems a lot one has to do, considering there is no one. Some illusory self must be tricked away, and the idea of what enlightenment is gets boxier and more specific, and rises upon some plinth of unobtainable height. The mind gleefully picks itself apart, spiralling into a morass of well-loved mental masturbation; safe in its endlessness, the study of awakening replacing the seeking of it. How the dual mind loves to be in charge. How we fret and scurry, desperate to do the right action, think the right thought, feel the right feelings, and correct all the many many wrongs both in ourselves and society at large. The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, while it makes a good doorstop, and has undoubtedly made separation more bearable for innumerable apparent individuals, goes on and on about the moment of death, the need for a proper state of mind, and the many stages one goes through on the journey to rebirth. A very complex story, full of admonishment. So many practices advocate stripping away the self, one wrong-thinking bit at a time. Who exactly, is doing this? Who can strip away themselves? Who wants to? Christianity makes deals; behave yourself now, be rewarded later. Not far off the Buddhists. There is nothing wrong with any of these belief systems, by mere fact of their existence. This message is so utterly simple. What is sought is this; what is longed for never left; the game of separation is played, by no one, for the fun of it all slipping away.

Good Now, Play One Scene Of Excellent Dissembling.

Perhaps some interesting blah blah about all this is about the nature of matter. That would be everything; body, brain, space, wall, air, sun, all the apparent substance of the world. Part of all this, some interesting concepts anyway, is: what is it we see/hear/taste/touch/smell/think/feel, and who sees/hears/tastes/touches/smells/thinks/feels. Say there's a mountain, who sees it? What is seen? Where is it seen? What apprehends it? This picture of a mountain exists where? There's a lot about this mind-bending concept here, great fun, thanks Randall Friend. And hand in hand with the who-is-perceiving notion is the what-is-being-perceived. What is it, exactly? There are little electrical charges that make up the pictures and sounds and sensations and light and dark in the brain. That is all it is: energy. Energy in the apprehension, and moving further, energy in the composition. Physicists have been banging on for years that matter is actually energy. What is that, exactly? Well, deeply into the structure of apparent matter, and the forces and laws that seem to govern it, lies next to nothing. Equations exist to explain that certain particles exist, not because they are known, but because other particles behave in a way that suggests their existence. The behaviour of the particles changes with observation. The very core and essence of matter is, shall we say, flaky. This is perhaps what is behind the suggestion that the appearance, reality, is illusory; that the very matter that makes the brain that apprehends itself is composed of nothingness. All there is, say some, is consciousness. There are so many stories, of reincarnation, heaven and hell, lives lived well and lives wasted, even scientific stories about the study of matter. Perhaps the stories are a mere added bonus, not the absolute object of mortal dedication they often are. Yet each story, however interpreted, is perfect; being is perfect with or without the stories. Life is as it is. That anything at all can rise from nothingness is a miracle.

Earth Gapes, Hell Burns, Fiends Roar, Saints Pray.

I was speaking to a friend yesterday who insisted on the importance of intentional consciousness or directional ego, the label escapes me, but the concept was a little separate piece of yourself you keep holy and use to direct action to the good, or the true purpose, or the perfect actions of the realised, fulfilled self: oneness, claimed by separation. It's never enough, oneness, everything is not enough. (Wasn't "Everything is not Enough" a Bond movie?) In separation, there is always a figuring out, a method, a reason. What is is never enough. What is, is often described as "wrong thinking" or "bad karma" or "Koyaanisqatsi." We fret that we don't say what we mean, do what we think is right, and please people we don't respect. It seems very important to make the right choices, to shed the bad actions that are not in alignment with flowing being and absolute purpose. This seems the highest story of life; to be with the universal flow, to be true to oneself, and the core of beauty and truth sensed within. It's either oneness, or it isn't; and it is. The imperfect actions and sacrifice of what is required to fulfill one's ultimate purpose are simply what is; they are ways of being as beautiful and human as any life lived in universal harmony, or however you want to describe it. What often seems to happen, is that these things take care of themselves. It's not necessary to eke out, by hard graft and an enormous act of will, a healthy directional ego. Choices may seem to arise, yet they are made by no one; and a life story of pain and resistance is not any worse, or better, than a life attuned to universal energies. When no one is in the way, what seems to happen is often more efficient and attuned and mentally healthy; but it is difficult to let go, when what is let go of is what lets go. There is nothing to be done, there is nothing to decide; decisions arise, actions too. It is so simple, seeing life for what it is; it is everywhere, everything, everyone. It's a hard ask, in duality, to see that suffering is love. But there's nothing wrong with seeing or not seeing. Whatever is, is perfection, even the rejection of it.

It Is The Witness Still of Excellency To Put A Strange Face On His Own Perfection.

This is apparently not seen, that all is oneness, that the source of "I am" is all there is, no matter what its guise, when separation is believed in. It is reinforced by everything, by nearly all of society, and the things we hang onto existence become more important than existence itself. I am Bob, my favourite colour is blue, my family is my priority, I saw a dead chipmunk in a field when I was a child crawling with maggots and it deeply affected me, I have a deep fear of rejection, and I love Film Noir. The mind is loathe to even entertain the notion of giving these things up, especially if loads of time and effort has been expended on getting to know what all these characteristics are, accepting them, flaws and virtues alike, and at last loving the whole package; the pinnacle of mental health. Someone said to me, "Are you saying that life is meaningless? That's bullshit!" He was very angry. The mind will use whatever it takes to keep the story the only thing that matters, that's worth knowing, that's worth controlling, and enriching, and overcoming. If awakening is sought, it's always something that will happen later, after this meditation is perfected and that conference is attended or this level of self-enquiry is achieved. Life is meaningless, yet each apparent moment is fraught with miraculous, unfettered being. It isn't the mind's story about the journey to awakening that is important, although there is nothing wrong with it, and that story, like everything else that seems to be happening, is perfect. Awakening is the fear felt by no one, when the personality is threatened. It is the wind, the television droning away, the pressure of the seat, the clicking of the keyboard, the rush of love for a child, it is this, it is whatever this is; inconceivable by the mind, yet liberated, perfect being, the constant, the ideal lover always. This is it.

O Wonderful, Wonderful, And Most Wonderful Wonderful! And Yet Again Wonderful, And After That, Out Of All Hooping!

Although in some stories it can be, this need not be looked at or perceived or approached in any certain way. There can be ego egoing away, or maybe a lapsed moment when - shock horror! - you may not be "in the moment" or "present in the now." What's wrong with being lost in thought? What's wrong with the old washing machine mind now and again? There is no choice whether to have these things, or not, and they're merely appearance, a big, showy production number, or perhaps a gentle, silent scene. Perhaps a foray into hell, perhaps a moment of ecstasy. Oh no, say some, the "self" has come back to claim the suffering or the pleasure, uses it as a way to "stay here"; if there is only oneness, there is only oneness. All is oneness, however resistant to oneness it may seem to be, however dualistic the appearance is, however lost in separation the apparent individual seems to be, all is oneness. A thought comes up to really, really practice this shit and concentrate on "I am" or meditate the self away or self-enquire or give up or not give up, because what needs giving up is what gives up, and what needs letting go is what lets go. There is the eye that cannot see itself, and what you are looking for is what is looking, every single f***ing thing we do is wrong, or right, or there is no right and wrong, or there is wrong thinking, or duality is oneness, Jesus Christ, blah blah blah blah blah. It doesn't matter, give it a rest. There is only this. This is a miracle. Seen or not seen, ineffable or eff-able. Self in the way or not.