One Touch Of Nature Makes The Whole World Kin.

You are whole, complete, and beautiful, just as you are. The ins and outs and ups and downs of the story of your life are but a tiny part of what you are. You are the light that lets the story project; you are the timeless, infinite presence that mysteriously conjures something of nothing. You know this; you are this. Everything you see, hear, feel, touch, taste, smell and think is you; you are what you apprehend; the little construct usually labeled "you" is just a convenience. No one can tell you that you are less than infinite, less than complete, less than perfect; you are love itself, playing at duality, delighting in existence for its own sake. Love is you, and you are everything.

Words are written, no one prints them out. No one will be printing for awhile, as apparently, no one is going camping for ten days, in the story that seems to unfold at any rate! Nothing can go wrong in the "meantime," as nothing is happening; enjoy the appearance in my more-obvious-than-usual absence.

Love, Suzanne

The Raging Rocks And Shivering Shocks Shall Break The Locks Of Prison Gates.

Look here, and here and here for an interesting but (of course) meaningless exchange in the realm of nonduality bloggers and writers. Food for thought, but for who? Or whom?

Every concept is a prison, yet exists in complete freedom. There is nothing you can do, nothing to be done, except what is. If thoughts arise, reinforcing themselves, in the form of strong urges to investigate and practice traditional Advaita practices or any other practices that will strip away the ego, those are the urges that arise. There is no goal; the goal is always met, in whatever it is that appears. There is no struggle, although there is often the appearance of one, and this apparent struggle is beautiful, for it is what is. The human condition of being self-aware is not a problem; it is what is. The minor conflicts of seekers and commenters and teachers of enlightenment on the Internet isn't a cause for deep introspection or casual dismissal, although either of these might come up. The epic conflicts of people apparently faced with their imminent destruction, or the destruction of their sacred ideas, is not the proving ground of humanity. Humanity needs no proving ground; humanity has not lost its way, or if it seems to have, the story has simply shifted to the dark moment before the dawn. There is nothing wrong with humanity; there is nothing wrong with "you", however many thoughts come up that say there is something terribly wrong, and those things are this, this, and especially this. Everything is just exactly as it must be, no matter what is looks like, smells like, feels like, sounds like, or how it seems to be judged. Whatever your character does, that is perfect. Whatever you do, it is what must be. And in the story that seems to unfold, immediate presence is usually not expressed in destruction - although there must be destruction and creation both, in duality. This is paradise. There is nothing else.

To Your Huge Store Wise Things Seem Foolish And Rich Things But Poor.

It is really quite amazing, reality, or whatever you care to label it. Just pure being, just whatever it is that seems to be happening. Every apparent mind/body/brain thingy has it, in fact, is it. It is life whittled down to the absolute core. Livingness, just as it is. You are everything you see, feel, touch, think, hear, smell, and taste; the separate something that this all seems to happen to is just a reference point, and certainly makes things interesting, but is wholly unnecessary. It is a big ask, to abandon this persona, this interesting construct that has such an captivating story, full of pathos and delight; the main character in a fabulous or traumatic storyline, charismatic or unassuming, bigger-than-life or quite ordinary; much loved or similarly loathed. Yet there is no one anything is happening to. Happenings seem to occur; they may be claimed, or not. A time-dependent story is just a small part of All, and All is what we are. The sweet little frightened construct that everything seems to happen to, arises in All. We are not that. We are All, or One, or God, or whatever label seems best; this has nothing to do with words or ideas, which are a small part of All. Even these words are not what is spoken of, even if they are more to the point than most. Every apparent person, every evident persona, is All if stripped back to what the ego arises in. Everything, livingness, beingness, aliveness, All, One, whatever it is named, is all that there is. It is what you are. And, if the ask is too big to give up the tiny person that it seems to happen to, with their interesting story of struggle and suffering and joy and elation, it doesn't matter. You are everything, whether it is seen or not.

That Spirit of His In Aspiration Lifts Him From The Earth.

What of the story, then. What seems to unfold simply is, yet the mind plays, the mind delves, the mind seeks a pattern and a goal. It simply seeks; there is no one seeking. The person we think we are, the bundle wrapped around being, the sweet construct that laughs and hurts and ponders and wonders, that person we take to the therapist or we bring to the candlelit table looking for love, that we nurture or we lambaste as never good enough, is of no importance, as fragile and fleeting as a child's game of Let's Pretend. What it is that seems to do these things, is just what is, so being may see itself; and there is nothing wrong with it. Whatever it is that seems to be, is what is looked for; whatever twists and turns the story makes, saturated with import and significance, fraught with meaning and purpose and mysterious synchronicity, mean nothing. There is no way to stop it; trying to stop it supports it, intensifies it; life will do as it pleases, and there is no implication or purpose in any of it. There is only this, however it is defined. This eternal moment of reality is all there is, all "we have"; yet we cannot truly claim it. There may be great urges to improve the story, to make good, to feel better, to make things better for humanity, to relieve suffering; yet what is, is what is, and in the story, suffering seems to diminish when that story isn't taken so seriously. These urges can be followed or not. There is no choice, despite the appearance of options. In the end, the story may be improved, but the improving isn't the goal. There is no goal, save being; and what is sought is right here, right now, just what is, because there isn't anything else that truly exists.

All Eyes And No Sight.

Expectations are a killer. Expectations will box in and misidentify whatever it is that is sought. Every expectation is a concept, with parameters and demands, that cannot fail to fall short of what it is that is desired. The desire itself is ironic, for what is desired is always right here, screaming through the senses, the thoughts, and the feelings, whatever they may be; a desire must be sated in some nonexistent future, and what is desired is this, as it is, "here" and "now". Even in the story, expectations can blind the protagonist from seeing what is right before his or her eyes; witness Dorothy, who wanted what she had, home; or Captain Ahab, blinded by the expectations of catharsis through vengeance. Expectations will always fall short, or be unimaginative, or be too specific; and when pointing to the ineffable, will always disappoint. There is nothing, happily, that can box in liberation. It is both everything, and freedom from everything. It is not attainable through any specific practice; it is this. It is not any state of bliss, or detachment, or any state at all; it is what is, whatever it seems to be. It is one, without another; it is what seems to be happening, just as it is; all the talk about reality being illusory, or a hologram, or as substantial as the wall of a dream is interesting, and perhaps a useful pointer, but those descriptions are just something to give the mind to play with. There is no escaping everything, there is no way to lose it, there is no way to find it; it is. Any ideas about what liberation "is like" cannot contain it, or accurately describe it. It is what you are, it is what is sensed, it is eternal, timeless, infinite, and always available; it can be nothing else.

I Would Be All, Against The Worst May Happen.

So who is it, exactly, that hangs that extra added self onto being? Who is it that questions it all? Who is it that doubts, and frets, and sings and laughs and despairs? Why is it that apparent "people" who have "become enlightened", or, to be pedantic, have seen that there is no one, and there is no one who needs to be "enlightened", continue to paradoxically write and talk about the very thing that cannot be described? Why do they write the endless words, called "pointers" if you're doing it correctly, using nothing but concepts (for all words are concepts) to attempt to describe something that is not a concept? Why do they blog, and write books, and do interviews, and have ironic scraps in email and the comment boxes about the suitability of one concept over another? If freed from the mind, the tool of duality, why do they bother at all? How can they continue to use the personal pronouns if there is no one, no "me", only a deeply fundamental "I"? If enlightenment is freedom, liberation from the self, from the fairy-story of a separate individual named Randy or Charles or Joanie or Anthony or Suzy, why do they sign their names to what seem to be specific ideas of what "it's" like? Why do some of them vehemently refuse to describe the apparent story of their lives, and others freely drop in little anecdotes about the washing up or the school run? Isn't there some certain, perfect way it all happens, and the "enlightened" person uses exactly the right words (pointers) and does exactly the right things and says only what cannot be disputed, for it points to absolute truth and reality? Why do some profess to teach, and others firmly state there is no one to teach, and no one can be taught what is already everything? How is it that there is a paradox between oneness, just what's happening, to no one, and a story that seems to continue, reliant on memory and speculation? Who remembers and speculates? Just how does this ego thing work? Is it true that ego is just oneness, "ego-ing"? If liberation happens, and it is seen there is no one, is it allowed to doubt and laugh and sing and laugh and despair? If there is no ego, then how does the mind/body function? If there is no volition, why do "enlightened" people seem to make so many choices? Who is choosing, anyway? What's it like to be "enlightened"? Shouldn't it be better? Shouldn't it be good? Shouldn't it be a solution to every perceived problem? And furthermore, what's the point?

Whatever questions arise, that is oneness, questioning. No one adds the ego onto pure, unfettered, fundamental being; it may seem to be added, or not, whatever seems to be, is what is. The words are written, not just the worthy pointers, but the tabloid headlines and the signature on the death warrant. No one writes; no one has ever written. No one interviews, or blogs, or nitpicks, or derides, or agrees, or teaches. None of it matters. All of it is beauty.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

How to put it? Not easy. Wherever I seem to be, whatever I seem to do, it is the same thing; it only looks and feels and sounds different. Whatever it is I ever thought I was looking for, was always right there, is always right here. Fulfillment and wholeness is the quality of life, and life is simply whatever seems to be happening; there is no Africa, merely thoughts of Africa; and if I seem to buy a ticket, board a plane, and land in Africa, there is only Africa, and that is exactly the same as wherever it is I seemed to be before; it only looks and feels and sounds different. There is just this, whatever this seems to be; whatever the thoughts and actions that seem to happen, it is the same thing, in a different guise. It doesn't matter what you label this; everything is God; oneness, beingness, wholeness, the still source; it is what is. The separate thing that notes this is not a separate thing; there are only thoughts, whatever the thoughts contain. It matters not a whit. Yet everything matters, its intrinsic value in its mere existence. Whatever this is, it is whole, complete, in balance, even if the thoughts opine it is not. And all there is, is now; it is all there ever is; all we ever have is the present, if you care to label it that, this, and it is endless, timeless, even if memory and speculation seem to make it a story of growing up and growing old. Nothing has changed, nothing can change. Yet everything has changed; the extra baggage of a constructed self is not taken so seriously, by no one; the thoughts opine this too. This is it, as Michael Jackson named his last (and sadly never to be seen) series of shows at the O2. Whatever it is, is what it is, and what it is, is this.