Wednesday, 30 September 2009
And For My Soul, What Can It Do To That, Being A Thing Immortal As Itself?
How can there be anything but this? I know there are thoughts and feelings, children and bill collectors, bosses and boyfriends that make the story in time seem absolutely real. But even the poor, beleaguered, overworked mind can just about grasp no time. All there ever is, is this ever present moment; and in that - this -what is present reality for every individual - there lies the key to the mystery. There lies the secret of man's immortality; the only thing that really exists is now, here. There is no beginning or end to this. Time is a mechanism by which oneness can enjoy and merely be aware of itself; a means by which our senses and are bodies have some voice, a tool so that nothingness can be something, for the mere pleasure of pure existence. If the mind is seemingly not engaged, as is what happens in meditation, perhaps timelessness can be more obvious. But such quieting of the mind is not necessary, although pleasant. Whatever it is that seems to unfold, is the perfect unfolding, the best possible story. When the person it all seems to happen to is no longer the be-all and end-all, the story may indeed seem more efficient, or blissful, or go more smoothly; but there are no guarantees. The story may still be painful, but the pain may be seen as life in the front line, or simply balance; yet again, there is no certainty. There is no better way than the way that is. Everything you have ever been looking for is staring you in the face; and what you have been looking for is what looks.