Monday, 1 June 2009
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.