Tuesday, 16 June 2009
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.