How Can This Be Meaningless?

This is all so beautiful, so fraught with meaning and profound resonance. How can it be meaningless? There is so much discovery, so much revelation; the layers of the onion of the self are peeled back, naked truths are realised, and so much perspective is gained; it becomes clear how my life went wrong, and what it is I have to do to make it better, so it is more attuned with everything, more in harmony with all. I have learned to love, and the nature of compassion is clear; unconditional love is truly unconditional, and I am able to practice this, seemingly without much effort, despite liking and disliking those others in my life. I see clearly that the suffering I have gone through was a gift, despite the vulnerability, despite the injustice of it; I can also forgive my own crimes, perpetrated in a state of illness and fear. There is truly compassion for myself, and compassion for others. How can this be meaningless? The feelings are so sweeping, so profound, have such depth and breadth. How can they be the same as anything else? How is it they are no more moving and miraculous than the stain on the carpet or the insect crawling toward the stain? The answer is: the story can be about miracles, resonances, deep feelings of love and acceptance, or about an insect crawling on the carpet. The story can be deeply moving or exceedingly ordinary. But it is just a story, no matter how moving, no matter how mundane. The miracle is that anything appears to exist at all. There is the story of scientists looking closely at the very nature of matter, getting into the sub-atomic level of the manifestation, and seeing that unless there is someone observing it, there is nothing there. All there is, is this.

There Is No Story.

Despite all that seems to happen, there is no story. There is no time in which a story can unfold. We seem to be creatures of linear time, learning from our mistakes (or not), waxing nostalgic for a past where things seemed better, or yearning for a future when this contingency or that expediency will happen, and life will, at last, be happier. We crawl into the memories that arise or the speculation of the future and think that it proves that things have, indeed, happened before, and things will, absolutely, happen again. There are cartloads of regret for things done wrong, and barrels of planning for doing the next right thing. Yet all there ever is, is this. This is all we ever have, all we ever are. The timeless void that is this - not now, for now suggests then - is all there is. Perhaps it can be labeled presence. All is presence, whatever form it seems to take. Even if there is a sense of separation, you live in boundless infinite light. The sense of separation only hides it, it doesn't destroy it; this is eternal being, it is all there is. The dropping away of a separate person - which is, after all, only a fragile concept - simply reveals what has always been there, what always is, what is. It doesn't change what appears to happen, but what appears to happen is seen for what it is. Boundless, changeless being. You don't have to do a thing. Here it is. If there is still some sense of being apart, it doesn't matter, for that is just as it must be. For goodness' sake, enjoy it. Just relax and be. Everything will still appear to go on without you just fine.

The Story of Aloneness.

So much isolation and aloneness. Loneliness, apart-ness; it fuels, in the story, all the things we label "bad". The human condition seems to be one of many islands, and we want to feel we are not an isolated mass anymore. Murder is the abandonment of any hope of empathy, of feeling a part of everything. Greed is the same with a bit more restraint; there is no hope of joining, so there is no respect for life, just taking care of the only being that seems real - the self. This self, this "me", is so precious; it's the only thing we know, and we long for someone to care, to feel that this isolated being is as important to someone else as it is to us, thus validating its existence. Falling in love is so powerful; it seems to bridge that enormous perceived gap between individuals. Good therapy is powerful too; the therapist cares. They have no concerns, in that hour, except yours; they may be paid, but they show us that we are as important and special as we feel to ourselves, or perhaps they show us that worthiness for the first time. The most powerful stories (It's A Wonderful Life comes to mind) comfort us that a life rich with friends - those others that validate us - is a life worth living. Everything we do is to try to be whole again. If we feel separate from the Earth, we trash it. War between peoples is a compromise - at least we can feel a part of a certain group, bound together by a conflict with another group. There is so much underlying despair, it seems, the abandonment of ever being a part of, or some acceptance of being apart. Yet this is just the story of the dream of separation. However powerful or hypnotic the dream seems to be, however much other facets of the story reinforce it, it is an illusion. The illusion can just drop away. And there is everything, and nothing; there is only the play of life, happening as it must. Even the most lonely, isolated, shunned individual is the one. There is only that. The freedom gained is your whole life, and everything you ever thought important, lost forever.

Words Are Useless.

Oh dearie me, the words, the very serious and deliberate words out there, kabillions of them, trying to describe awakening (or whatever we call it on a Friday morning, blah blah blah.) I just skimmed over 37 facets of awakening, Buddhist I think. Thirty-seven, huh? Blimey. That's a lot. There are not 37 facets of much of anything, I reckon, unless the mind is still in charge, skimming and slicing and categorising and analysing. Thirty-seven is, to state the obvious, exceptionally dualistic. Or thirty-septistic. It seems to me to be a way to describe utter, iron-fisted control of each action of life, also each thought and every feeling, all ruthlessly pinned down and mastered. A lot of seekers are glad to find a discipline, it gives them something to do while they wait for awakening to "happen" to "them"; and if it's not just going to spontaneously happen, well then, they're going to bend and mold their spiritual selves until they bloody well force it to. God (who's he?) forbid life just happens, to no one. And it's life happening to no one that is impossible to describe. Admittedly, this "impossible to describe" thing is annoying. There are a lot of words on this site devoted to: all there is, is this; there is no one; there is no one who needs to awaken; everything you've ever looked for is here, even the looking is it. Blah blah, blah blah blah. Sitting here and reading this isn't going to hasten awakening. The best to be hoped for is death, death of the dream of "you". There is no one, there is no seeker desperate for awakening - there is desperation, and seeking. The difference is either life happens to you, or life happens. Yet these words are fruitless. The shift is entirely energetic, and is akin to some kind of dropping away of a veil, but these words too are useless. As useless as all 37 carefully dissected facets of awakening, which, by the way, there is nothing wrong with. Seeking is fun, seek away. But "you" are already "there", and no words can bring being any closer; it is already all there is.

What Is Compassion?

We must be less selfish, and help others. Compassion is the answer to a lot of questions, apparently. Compassion for self, with compassion for others to follow, is the holy grail of mental and emotional health. The end to self-obsession, a longing to be a part of the whole of society, to feel less separate from our fellows, to be able to feel empathy for the plight of others, is mighty important for those whose job is to balance out fear- and survival-driven self-interest. So many people are concerned that selfishness and the individualistic nature of much of the world is sentencing mankind and his habitat to extinction. A lot of hand-wringing and corrective action goes on in the name of the selfish, short-sighted fossil fuel burning culture. The seas are not only warming, they're becoming more acidic, and unable to support shellfish. (I'm sure there's a play on words here about selfish weak-willed people and weak-walled shellfish, but it eludes my small brain.) Compassion, sing the wise, is the answer. The end of poverty is the answer, for the impoverished don't have the luxury of compassion; they're too busy surviving. So, compassion for the poor, and the end of their suffering, will spawn more compassionate people and the end of selfishness, or self-interest, and we'll all look after each other more efficiently, and the world will be a better place. An only slightly flawed utopia, where there is no need for war because we are compassionate towards each other, and recognise we are all the same; where there is no shortage of food because we compassionately share everything; where there is no threat of global climate catastrophe because we use our big brains to meet our needs and comforts in an environmentally sustainable way. However, compassion is more all-encompassing than that. Compassion is this, just as it is, in its seemingly flawed and sometimes selfish manifestation. Compassion is seeing there is no one who needs help, there is no one. Compassion accepts what is, it is what is. Compassion is the sound and fury of selfishness and selflessness, compassion is wholeness, and wholeness is this, no matter how flawed it is judged to be. Compassion doesn't judge, it allows. If there is a profound moment when you set aside selfish pursuits and start to help others to get through their lives, or rally what masses you can to save the planet, or simply forgo that relaxing bath to sit with your child and help her with her homework, there is nothing wrong with that - but it isn't liberation. Liberation is this, as it is, happening to no one. In perfection and unspeakable beauty. Whether it is rampant greed or giving a motivational speech to an adoring crowd. Whatever it seems to be, it is what you have been looking for, it is what is looking, and what is seen, and what is. Just exactly as it is. If there is a burning desire to be compassionate and spread compassion, by all means follow that dream. But it is simply a desire arising; it is not happening to you.

It Will Always Be A Mystery.

There are so many ways to avoid "awakening" or whatever you wish to label it. It's strange, how we use the story to make our characters feel less worthy than they already do. It seems such an elusive thing, something so special, this enlightenment thingy. "When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears" is a snippet of supposed wisdom that is bandied around a lot. So we find a nice, enlightened spiritual teacher, who wears floaty clothes and eats only wheat grass and goji berries. They must be well-educated, and teach with great knowledge of all the traditional roads to enlightenment, especially Buddhism and the Tantra. They sit on a raised platform, and invite everybody to see the energy, to mind the gaps between thoughts, and to find the stillness from which all things emanate. The disciples look up at him (or her) with great awe and reverence, and project every relationship they've ever had on the poor guy. They either despair of ever being so wise and awake, or want to sleep with him. They do as he says and things get really interesting. The story revs up. They start to "know themselves" really well. They analyse their dreams as instructed, and use them to correct their "wrong" behaviour. They read great tomes filled with complicated instructions on how to change the way they think and perceive reality. They meditate, and sometimes find a great long gap between the thoughts. The disciples start to think this really must be a great thing they're doing, because they feel better; reality is more bearable. The teacher pays a lot of lip service to oneness. There is no one, they inform the devotees, and there is nothing. We are all each other. However, in order to see this you must buy my book and attend my seminars and have an exclusive, and expensive, satsang with me. The disciples work their socks off, they get to a place where they are in an ivory tower and simply notice what happens, detached; or they open their heart and feel the oneness, and they write down all their dreams and determine what the Universe must be telling them; they notice the grand synchronicity that happens, in a beautiful dance of duality, and feel they are ever closer to awakening, but that they'll never get there unless they work very very hard. They are already there. There is nothing else. No one can teach another to be. They are. No one can teach what is, it is. The great thing about these teachers and their students is that they might work so hard and try so much and still feel separate and unworthy - so they give up. And see that it is all just a story, albeit a very interesting one, perhaps filled with revelation and self-knowledge. It doesn't matter what the story is. It will always be a story. It will always be a mystery to the mind, especially the mind that believes it can all be figured out. The cleverer the mind, the more minutia the mind can grasp about the nature of reality, the more interesting the story - and the more elusive "awakening". Yet there is nothing wrong with any of this. As ever, it unfolds just as it must. But perhaps there are more apparent individuals who give up and see how sweetly prosaic it all is, how ordinary. How exactly what is happening, whatever that seems to be, no matter what it is, is the great mystery right in front of them, and in them, and in everyone and everything that seems to be. This is it. No one can teach it. It is.

The Story In Sharp Focus.

When something traumatic seems to happen, the story is in sharp focus. Yet that is oneness too. There's no getting away from it, no matter how deep the sense of separation is. When your child is sitting in the back of an ambulance, tears and snot and fear and pain in his face, his safe notion of invincibility shattered, the compassion and empathy are overwhelming. It all seems to be about how to make the separation more bearable for the poor little thing. So those words come out - you are safe, it's going to be alright - and the little creature takes heart, he trusts, perhaps he shows himself to be a pillar of fortitude, and the nurses and doctors at the hospital marvel at his comparative stoicism whilst dealing with a particularly painful fractured humerus. I'm so proud of you, you're so brave, and don't forget you saved the rugby match for your team with that disastrous tackle, I tell him; and he feels better, all those words reinforcing his isolation from everything. They are about how he can deal with the world and his pain, his fear, all of it stemming from the sense of separation; it is most categorically happening to him. Yet there is nothing wrong with these words, and with apparently reinforcing separation. They are what comes out, and it all comes out as it must. It would be ridiculous, and cruel, to tell an 11-year-old that what is happening is not happening to him. Yet as we chatted in the ward afterward, I had different words, and they were along the lines of everything is one thing. He seemed to accept this, but then he was high on opiates. It doesn't matter. It seems that young people spend a lot of time on their separation, making sure it's the biggest and best separation ever, starkly opposed to any separation that has come before, special and singular and very different. That too is as it must be. As is it all.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Love, love is the answer, it's all about love. Remember that "love" is just a word, a label, we put onto an ever elusive feeling and concept. Love is usually a reciprocal thing, but sometimes we seem to be mentally healthy enough to love without needing the love returned. But here, perhaps it can mean even more than that. It's all love, even the wall over there, even the vilest deeds of the most evil despot. If everything is love, everything is love. It allows everything, for it is everything, and must appear as all forces and their opposites in duality. It is all accepting; it is itself, and cannot reject itself. Any intense feelings of outrage at this idea are love, too. It is difficult to accept that there is truly no right or wrong, that all that seems to unfold unfolds in perfection. It doesn't mean license to indulge in a murder spree, for who is it that would choose to do that? It unfolds in perfection no matter how gratingly uncomfortable and uneasy it seems to be. The very uncomfortableness is just what it must be. Resistance is perhaps futile, but if resistance occurs, there is nothing wrong with it. Resistance to absolutely unconditional love is also absolutely unconditional love. There is no getting away from it, no matter how lonely and apart and isolated and separate your life may feel; separation is love as well. All those apparent others, they are you. You might as well love them.

I Don't Understand It.

Oh, the futility. I have a memory of watching the pasta boil last night (apparently) and being struck by the rolling boiling immediacy of everything. How to describe this, I thought, it's impossible. It's like that "now" . Unfettered, uncontrolled, vibrant, and not apart. It makes no sense to say I was the white boiling water, the stove, the pan, the hood light, but I was. It makes less sense to say I get on a bus, and feel profoundly that the little lights of awareness that are these other seeming individuals, are exactly the same as "me". That the quality of aliveness, stripped of all that stuff we hang onto it, is exactly the same; what seems to be a vital character, full of opinions and hang-ups, when stripped back to that very essence that seems to make us ourselves, is paradoxically just the same quality. That strong sense of "me" is actually just the same for "everybody". And even these little revelations are just the story, trundling along, not at all meaningful. There is deep wonder in it all. There is comfort for my character that I cannot make a mistake, although seeming mistakes are made. There is no separate will, however much the importance of "taking responsibility" or "making choices" is emphasized. Whatever it is "I" seem to do - whether it is carefully considered or utterly spontaneous - is exactly what must be done. And so, my mind seems to be relaxing. More and more, there is just being, boiling away, and my mind seems to be commenting on it less. But if I was gripped by a fearful need to control it all, that too, however inappropriate it may seem, that too would be perfect. I don't understand it. It is not understandable. But it is be-able.

It Just Looks Different.

This is wholeness, this is everything you ever thought you've been looking for. This is all there is. Even the feelings of unworthiness and incompleteness are wholeness. It is overwhelmingly obvious, yet paradoxically not easily seen. There is nothing else, this is it. There may be thoughts of Australia (if Australia is not apparently where you are), but Australia doesn't exist, there is just this. It is everything. You may fly to Australia, but there is still just this - it only looks different. It's difficult, there seems to be a location, there seems to be a person where the awareness is focused, but there is no location. Just whatever is, arising, for no one. Memories come up of when I struggled with this, when there was still someone struggling to not be herself. Nothing changed. I just suddenly realised - or saw - that this is what I had been searching for my entire life, it had been there all along, just everything exactly as it is. The quality of everything changed, yet nothing changed. It's not about accepting what is, or being content with "your" lot. Those ideas can make the separation from everything seem more bearable. But even the unbearableness is wholeness. Whatever the thought, feeling or appearance, there is nothing wrong with it, it is what it must be. Even the discontentedness with it is wholeness. There is no getting away from oneness, or whatever we happen to label it. It is the biggest thing, it is the only thing. Freedom from the bondage of self is astonishing, wonderful, yet also miserable, uncomfortable, it can be anything, there is no surety, there is no bargaining with it. But it is boundless, unfettered by time or space. It is all there is. There was never any "hole in my soul"; I merely believed there was. Now there is no one to believe. "How can this be enough?" I wondered, in separation. It is.

Who Is It That Grabs Ahold Of Life?

It's strange, when I hear people going on about "being ready to face life" or "getting in there and taking hold of life". Who is it, exactly, that's going to do this? Strangely enough, letting go of your life seems to have largely the same effect, in the story. The results are much the same; everything seems to go a lot more efficiently, there is less fear, worthy goals come up, responsible actions seem to happen, actual relationships with others seem to ensue. Life, the story of it anyway, seems more fulfilling, and less about unworthiness and disappointment. But there are no guarantees, life is always in free-fall, and any notions of control are illusory. Make no mistake - a life that seems wasted, lived in resentment and self-deception, isolation and self-obsession, is a life no less worthy than that of the most altruistic and compassionate saint. It is all oneness, God, consciousness, beingness, or whatever inadequate label we impose on it on Friday mornings. And don't forget it's all just a story. What happens in life, strung together by the mind, is a tiny thing. Even the stories of great suffering in whole populations are just a story. Compassion may arise, actions may happen, the desire to alleviate the suffering may come up, but it is all a story. There is nothing happening, to no one, and what seems to happen is a miracle, no matter what form it seems to take. Funnily enough, the thoughts that seem to arise for "me" are along the lines of: just enjoy it. The manifestation is so complex and interesting, explore it. Of course no one is doing this. But that is what appears to be happening.

Who Is Becoming What?

Oh dear. However fun it is trying to describe absolute being, it's fruitless. How it's possible to apparently be going about your business and yet categorically not be is not easily described. It certainly seems to be strung along in some story of cause and effect, but it's not. It's quite obviously not. This seems to be happening, then that, but there is no time. There is very obviously no time. There is a memory of being a child at a keyboard, of watching the family dog slowly die, of vigourously exercising in the back yard. Yet those things never happened. There is no starving Africa, there is only this. Names on a gravestone are just being, grave-stoning, and do not report of Agnes Cuthbert 1852-1901 Beloved Wife and Mother. She never existed. No one has, or does. The appearance is a miracle, but there's nothing to be done about it. There is no one, so there is no one doing anything, going anywhere. And what seems to be a choice never is. Whatever the story of our lives seems to be, there is nothing happening - only appearance. So the agonies we go through to get it all right, while not exactly fruitless, are no one's to determine. Whatever the character of you is seeming to do, no matter how self-aware or open or spiritual or mentally healthy you try to be, you are doing nothing. You are like a puppet, or a film image. The puppet show or film might be full of characters doing amazing things and having astounding thoughts and feeling incredible feelings, but the actions, thoughts and emotions are not theirs. They have no choice. And the puppeteer is the puppet. There is no filmmaker. We are the light that makes it possible, that makes it seem to happen. But it doesn't matter if this is seen or not, for there is no choice about that either. The thought that seems to come up for me is, have fun with it. In the story that seems to unfold but doesn't, I am becoming good-humoured.

So Deeply Into The Story.

It's lovely to watch people, to be with them, and see how deeply they are into the story of their lives. They are not only separate, but mighty fond of being so. They crawl right in there, analysing the minutia of their reactions, the quality of their thoughts, and the intensity of their feelings. They work hard to craft and hone their lives so that it gets "better". When it's not so great, they despair and say "I didn't sign up for this". There is a mad scrabble to change what is, because anything not reeking of bliss and contentment is resisted. Great pains are taken to discover their worth. That feeling of unworthiness is a hallmark of separation. In the story, they sense this and struggle to "be a part of" and label their self-consciousness "self-obsession" and take lots of actions to "get out of themselves". It's such a paradox that even the most walled-off, isolating, self-concerned individual is a perfect manifestation of oneness. That realisation of being alone is the most immaculate invitation to see that there is no one, and that they are simply oneness Lisa-ing or George-ing. Each apparent moment fraught with meaning is as meaningless as the most innocuous moment, another blink of an eye. Sometimes, it just seems more energetic than others. But whether an individual thinks so or not, it's all unfolding in flawless wholeness. In fact, it's not even unfolding. It certainly seems to, but it isn't . Those who struggle to "live in duality" miss the point that duality - which is just what most people refer to as reality - is deceptive, fragile, and insubstantial, for all it seems so solid. It reinforces its unreality by its very durability. This is not anything that the mind can grasp, but the mind is better employed negotiating a favourable contract than trying to understand the ineffable. What is clear is that this is what is, this is all there is, and it is beautiful no matter what form it seems to take. If we crawl right into the story or not, there is no choice whether to do that or reject it. It's happening, but not to you.

Cheer Up. It's Not As Bleak As All That!

There is no one, reality as we generally have been taught about it doesn't exist, there is nowhere to go, it's all meaningless, blah blah blah. Liberation sounds terrible. It is terrible. It's terrible in the same way death is terrible, or can be. Fear of death is a huge motivating factor for nearly everything we seem to do. Just ask Alvy Singer. But death can apparently happen before the demise of the mind/body organism or whatever we're carefully labeling "people" today. The loss of your life isn't so "bad". This is absolute perfect timeless being no matter what tiny thoughts arise about it all. This is constant, this is no different from the moment of "your" death, which is just another twist in the story. Unveiled existence, boundless, timeless, where everything seems to go on pretty much as it always has, is quite an extraordinary thing. It's astounding, nothing being something, it arises in perfect balance, for balance is the great quality of duality. What's hard for the separate individual to get is that it happens to no one. When there is no one, there is no fear of death, since death has already happened. Oneness takes care of itself whether we are free from the veil of self or not. It always "has". But even this is just the story. Whether there is clarity of the mind, which a lot of people seem to have, or unfettered living, or absolute being, or whatever we're carefully labeling "enlightenment" today, there is only being. This is it. And it doesn't suck.

Mesmerised By The Story.

I've been perusing what material exists about nonduality on the Internet. There are great gobs of it and nearly all of it makes me chuckle. There's talk of certain celebrities that are nondual, making the namaste sign to each other, and lending their beautiful speaking voices to tapes of non-dual literature. "What is Kelly Ripa's spiritual connection to Meg Ryan?" was asked very seriously in one blog. What it's like to "experience nonduality" is gone into deeply. Gurus are compared and rated. Everyone is positively riveted to the story of becoming that doesn't really exist. All the traditional paths to enlightenment are studied and analysed and torn apart, or heeded with reverence. The idea that duality and nonduality are mutually exclusive seems to be accepted as a matter of course, with little acknowledgement that oneness is oneness no matter what the appearance. Of course all of it's divine. The stories are thrilling and contradictory, but I get the feeling I'm hearing a babble from inside a penitentiary. There is nothing wrong with seeking. There is nothing wrong with devotion. There is nothing wrong with hanging onto a specific concept of spiritual awakening and defending it to the hilt. There's nothing wrong with hanging around in the lotus position for hours until some state of stillness and bliss is reached, yet I think most of these things have very little to do with liberation. Which allows everything and is everything, yet is nothing, being something. That nothingness thingy I slip in sometimes, and others slip in (like the apparent individuals linked to on this blog), it's a biggie. It isn't lingered on with description, for however useless description is for what I try to describe, nothingness defies it most of all. There is nothing, so the appearance is an absolute miracle. Stunning. Illusory, real and unreal, and apparently most amusing.

There Are No Deals.

So many seekers of "enlightenment" (or whatever we call it on an early Friday morning) want to make a deal with oneness. The mind has some very specific ideas about what "awakening" is like. For a start, "everything" is "better". Life is easier, we're happier. The mind thinks this is going to be great. We'll see that nothing matters, that we have no choice, that everything unfolds as it must, so there will be no discontentment, no despair, no misery. What's wrong with discontentment, despair and misery? And who is it that's going to have this easy, blissful life? The appearance of these feelings are just oneness, as is all appearance. They are the source, unconditional love, which is all-encompassing and allows everything as it is everything. These ideas are about the separate individual in some "better" state. Liberation, enlightenment, awakening, whatever it is you want to label it, is about the death of the individual. It is the scariest thing of all. There are no deals with oneness, dealing is necessarily dualistic. If you have to string it along in a story of cause and effect, for "me" anyway, it seems I'm the same mind/body organism, with the same apparent conditioning, who has the same worries and concerns. What is missing is the veil of me, the box of separation. Misery is miserable, joy is joyful, "times" of transition are uncomfortable. It all seems to carry on much the same, but extraordinarily, inconceivably differently; in an endless moment, where the leaf on the tree and the banister under the hand is subtly changed, where I seem to drive a car through myself, where I look at apparent others and know they are me, and I am them. There is beauty in it all.

There Is Light.

How many Zen masters does it take to change a lightbulb?

None, for the lightbulb is perfect as it is.


How many non-duality teachers does it take to change a lightbulb?

All of them, because each of them has the only right way to do it!


How many awakened persons does it take to change a lightbulb?

There is no one. So none. But changing sometimes arises in awareness.


How many gurus does it take to change a lightbulb?

None, they get their disciples to do it. Some of them are in the back having forbidden relations with the most beautiful disciples until the light goes on again.


How many Buddhist Masters does it take to change a lightbulb?

Enlightenment is a reflection of the unlimited abundance and potential of creation, not a greedy abstinence from the Good, the True, the Beautiful and the Pleasurable. There is bliss in the changing of the lightbulb. So change the lightbulb my child, and love the lightbulb, for the lightbulb is you and you are the lightbulb. The lightbulb is joy, and you are joyfulness. The lightbulb is....where are you going?

There Is Nothing Wrong With Any Of It.

Although there is no process in time, if there seems to be one for "me", then I'd say the whole oneness non-duality thingy is deepening. In the story that seems to unfold but doesn't really, my mind is less inclined to have a central role. There seems to be less self-consciousness. Life is life, actions happen, but not filtered through some personal identity; it is just full-on, absolute immediate being. It is completely out of control, there is no one to control it, and more tellingly, no one who particularly desires to control it. Last night I heard an apparent individual tell of his great pain, crying in the depths of his rejection, trying to handle the very difficult circumstance of being told by his wife that it was all over, just as he had gotten his life together and was trying very hard to be a good husband and father (and succeeding). In the story, my heart went out to him. In the story, my character wouldn't dream of going up to him and saying "well, don't worry, you're not really suffering, you don't really exist, the pain is just pain, it arises in apparent awareness, there's nothing wrong with it." In fact I just very briefly thanked him for being so brave as to tell us what was going on. In fact, my character was having thoughts of vague guilt for my apparent story being so easy, so fulfilling, so lacking in any great challenges or bereavements. Then, thoughts along the lines of "well, in my story there has been all the 'worst' kind of pain and suffering" came up. It's just not my apparent story right now. There's no self-destruction, no one is attacking me, and I'm not perpetrating any crimes upon others. But all these "bad" things have been a part of my story. If my character needs her guilt for having a great life assuaged, I suppose I could confidently say that I've had a lifetime's share of suffering already, and probably deserve a bit of happiness, peace and contentment, which I apparently have. It's funny, all these thoughts and actions and feelings arise, in nothingness. I don't understand it. I never will, it is not understandable. But a lot of the "time" "now", there is no need to understand. Just unfiltered feeling, thought, action. Immediate and amazing. On the weird side, I often look at something or someone and they sort of disappear, become some kind of wavering energy and light. This is happening to a character (me) who is scathingly skeptical of anyone who starts talking about auras and healing energy and different levels of existence. Who snorts derisively at any hippie/new-agey/meditation-y/Chinese-herb-eating, hemp mat sitting, guru-seeking, angel-chatting losers. I see the energy in everything, sometimes, just with my ordinary cynic's eyes. There's a turn up for the books. By the way, there is nothing wrong with the neo-Pagan age of Aquarius astrological healy-feely crowd. There's nothing wrong with my apparent scepticism. There's nothing wrong with suffering, there's nothing wrong with wanting to avoid it. There's nothing wrong with duality, and there's nothing right with oneness or awakening or not awakening or realising there is no one who needs to awaken. It is all just exactly as it must be. Perfect, as it is.

However Compelling It Seems...

We are so caught up in life. We take it so, so seriously. We have dreams and very seriously interpret them, because our psyche and its revelations must be taken seriously too. There are visions, experiences outside of what we think of as normal reality, and these are taken even more seriously. A chat with an angel is uniquely profound and transforming. Seeing the aura of energy around individuals is lauded as a spiritual coup - by some at least! And in "normal reality", we take our relationships so seriously it causes no end of trouble. We pull our partners aside to hash out issues, to set healthy boundaries, and to have appropriate disagreements with rules about giving a precis version of what the other said before we're allowed to state our side of things (which is often "I feel angry, because you are an unmitigated asshole"). We are especially afraid of death, when the whole thing will end. The lovely merry-go-round of pain and bliss will stop abruptly, and we have to get off. We make up beautiful stories about heaven, or reincarnation, or levels of purgatory so that it never, ever, ever has to end. It has never started. It has no end, or beginning. This is no different from the apparent moment of your death. In that story of life so filled with apparent choices that have so often begotten regret, there is no choice. There is no one to choose. This is the freedom. It is reprehensible to many, especially to the separate individual whose story is about taking responsibility for one's choices. Despite the appearance of choice, no one has ever made a choice. It's either oneness or it isn't. And it is.

There is No Direction.

There certainly seems to be cause and effect in the appearance of it all, but there isn't. Cause and effect is a product of the mind, and needs time to happen. There is no time. This is it. This is all there ever is, just this. Many things may seem to arise in this but it is just the seeming. Energy moving and jumping around, but not even that. What we are taught is reality is so fragile. The two and the one co-existing is the great mystery that will forever elude the tiny mind, but all there is is more than the mind. It encompasses the mind, it allows everything, it is everything. The greater mystery to the mind is that there is nothing. We seem to exist in nothingness. And that void is fearful to the individual. But there is nothing wrong with fear, there is nothing wrong, there is nothing. The stories seem to play out but they don't, not really.

It's Hopeless.

This apparent message is one of no hope for the individual. There is nothing and no one, nowhere to go, no one to go there if there were. The mind strings it along into a story of cause and effect, but there is no story. There is only this. But mind you, this doesn't suck. I was washing up a knife, so it seemed, one day, and without fanfare all there was was this. Nothing had changed, except what was happening wasn't happening to me. And that's not quite what I'm getting at, because there are no words to describe this. Say you're walking along the street one day, and suddenly...whoa. This is it. All these things I've been looking for, this is what it's been all along. "All along" isn't quite right either, because this is timeless. All there ever is, is this. When, exactly, is "now"? When does the past become now? When does the present become the future? How long is the present? Even one millionth of a nanosecond can be segmented into smaller parts. How long is segment that is now? All we ever have, is this, whatever "this" seems to be doing. It sings and sweeps and cries and crouches and sleeps and laughs, in timelessness. It is love if you want to label it that, it is the song of freedom that constantly sounds through all the apparent senses. The funny thing is, everybody has it. Everybody is it. It is desperately sought by some, some call it God and pray to it, making it very weirdly and unaccountably even more separate, but people have called God is everything, every atom, every feeling, every apparent act. The person who wants it so much veils it. There is no hope for that person. But there is hope that the dream can shatter at any "time".

Energy.

We're bundles of energy, put together in a way, a perfect way, a beautiful way, to see ourselves. In absence of a better way to put it, we have dreamed ourselves up. It's so difficult to take it very seriously. In order to see ourselves, there must be duality. Oneness plays the game of seeing itself. Oneness plays the game of being separate, and sometimes, so it seems, realises there is no separation, or indeed anything at all. It all seems very real. Yet it doesn't. To "my" senses it often seems very fragile, all this apparent solidity of manifestation. Memories arise of my longing to be separate no more. It wasn't seen that the longing itself was perfect wholeness, as indeed is everything. The mind strained for some idea of what boundlessness was. Something big and exploding. Something floaty and blissful, expansive and soaring. Somehow, it was seen that whatever arises, just as it is, is what I longed for. The quality of what is seemed to change, yet remained sweetly ordinary. The amazingness of this became apparent. Just sitting, typing, thinking, feeling. Everything you've ever been looking for is right here. The looking itself is divine. Suffering, pain, death, all those things duality demands be reviled, are divine. So many people - teachers, evidently - that speak of duality go on about the end of suffering. How can suffering end? In apparent duality, there must be suffering, so there can be bliss. A Utopian vision is always hopelessly lopsided. And yet, when the manifestation - our apparent world - is observed, the thoughts that come to "me" are that it's not all going down the toilet. Compassion is more accessible, it is even taught in schools. The world is not governed, perhaps, by greed, as so many despairingly opine, but by improvement, by greater care, by - dare I say it, for my character is a cynical one - by love. In the parable of duality, seeking to not be so separate manifests in a lot of selflessness. But there can't be selflessness without rampant self-interest elsewhere. It is so interesting, seeing it all, being it all, sometimes drawing conclusions, but the conclusions aren't anyone's. It is obvious that is is all going just as it must. In beauty and perfection. Just energy darting about in an explosion of life, sweetly familiar, woefully unpredictable, breathtakingly painful, and sometimes euphoric - for no one.

Nothing Happens By Mistake.

There are no mistakes. Even blindingly obvious errors are not mistakes. Some apparent individuals take this and turn it into "Whatever happens to 'me' is not a mistake, so I must alter my responses to the world. It is my reactions that are wrong. In order for everything to get better, so that my life is working, I must choose to respond differently to what is happening. I must adjust my thinking and beliefs. Above all I must accept everything that happens." Even the responses are not a mistake. There is no one who can choose to do anything; there are no separate individuals who have choices, no one has free will and volition. Who is it that would choose? It's either oneness or it isn't. And it is. It is the most difficult thing for the dreamer to acknowledge, this lack of volition. There are a lot of analogies to describe this; we are puppets, we are the flickering images of a film, we are always dreaming. But it's a hard ask, to believe that there are no choices when it seems obvious we make a plethora of choices every day. Those thoughts and feelings that seem to precede such choices are not your own. How can an illusion own anything? They do not come from "you". They happen. Actions seem to happen. But we do not choose them, for there is no one to choose. Even the most energetic outrage at some injustice or other, deep compassion for apparent suffering, noble commitment to a worthy cause, these are not "your" choices. Outrage, compassion and commitment happen. They seem to be choices, but they are not. The death of the dreamer doesn't mean they won't still happen. They will simply be, for no one. Life unveiled is nothing to be afraid of. It is merely more efficient, unclouded by the extra added "me-ing". And it is all divine.

No One Going Nowhere.

It's funny, perusing the various and plentiful resources that cover non-duality on the Internet. (What did we ever do before the Internet?) There's plenty written about all is one, there are no separate individuals, blah blah blah. Then there is abundant advice about what these non-existent individuals must do to "achieve oneness". Get into the experience...envision a different reality...meditate until your ass has to be amputated from gangrene...follow the stillness...don't believe your thoughts...get to know intimately your sub-personalities...climb a mountain, have a satsang with a master...and on and on ad infinitum. My goodness. Who is it, exactly, that's going to do all this? There's certainly nothing wrong with any of it. There's nothing right with it either. It is the story. It is just the story, and no amount of practice of any kind can do anything but reinforce duality. There is nothing happening, no one doing anything, and nowhere to go. This is it. This is oneness. It is has the distinct advantage of already being everything. There is no hope for the individual to make his or her life better. There may be the appearance of peace and serenity and bliss and all those things duality tells us are desirable. But even a life of disciplined practice, leading to a guilt-free and happy existence, is a shadowy parable of the source, oneness, whatever we call it on a Thursday. All those practices are just fine, but they have little to do with liberation. Until liberation, every appearance is the perfect invitation to oneness. Then there is oneness. And I can type and criticise and opine and speculate until my apparent fingers fall off my seeming hands; it is all gibberish. The finger points to the moon, the moon is seen, and then it is noticed that the moon appears to be about the size of the fingernail. Yet another illusion. As is it all. A mysterious, wondrous, intense and poignant appearance. Nothing is wrong with it. In fact, nothing is wrong.

I Can't Awaken.

The great secret is that there is no one. There is nothing. What seems to manifest is appearance, energy that seems to take shape. Energy arranged into mechanisms - eyes, brain, skin, ears, nose, taste buds - that seem to make it possible for the energy to apprehend itself. This is duality. The object and subject, the labeling and categorisation, all the investigation into how it works, me and you, us and them, God that is separate from us - this is duality, the tool of oneness to gaze at itself. There is nothing wrong with duality. In fact, each atom of it is a miracle, a mystery of perfection. What seems to be and what simply is exist together. I can't awaken to seeing it is all one if I'm still separate. Awakening is death of the seeker, for as long as there is someone looking, what is cannot be seen. An eye cannot look at itself, it is itself. And that is the difference, that is the energetic shift of perception that "awakening" is. The eye no longer looks to see itself, it is itself. And in being itself, in simple being, the veil that has hidden the wonder of it all falls away. I can't awaken, no one can, no one needs to. It is just as it must be. It is very ordinary, yet impossibly splendid.

More About The Story.

Fascinating to the mind, thrilling to the emotions, but still just a story. What a story. I remember - or memories arise in awareness, if we're being pedantic - when the barren riverbed of my psyche was flooded, and all the potentialities of humanity revealed. There are no cobwebs in the corners of my humanity! After an apparent lifetime of needing to control it all, the power of absolute surrender overcame me. I yielded, and there was the first whisper of the absolute in my personal myth. I became my courage, and acted my own heroine. The nature of love was shown to me, and the healing power of acceptance was itself accepted, and my own worth was at last unveiled. Anger, lust, and fear took their rightful places, and what had been destructive energy was somehow channeled to creation. Finally, I became the love that was revealed to me. And the fascinating, thrilling creature I had become melted away. There was grief at my death, yet somehow, the story goes on. I describe my own practice, not much different to the proscribed methods of self-enquiry that abound, that are meant to peel away the layers of the onion until the center is reached. And in the center is nothing. My practice was given to me, I didn't seek it, except by trying to destroy myself in the usual ways. But this is just the story. Practice is likely before "awakening" or "liberation" or whatever it is we label it, but it is not necessary. It is available to the drunk under the bridge or the raving schizophrenic or the evil-doing sociopath or the indifferent agnostic. It is everything, it is already that which is, just as it is, and however breathtaking the story seems to be, it is merely a pale reflection of a greater possibility.

Let's Talk About The Story.

We are mesmerised by the story. I especially like my story. It's the best one of all! We are deeply involved in the fascination of being separate. There are so many expectations of what should happen. There is so much pain and resistance. It is particularly painful when others seem to reject us; there is such an echo of our own degraded sense of worth in that. If the story involves lots of grown-up striving for mental health, we're taught to love and accept ourselves with the unspoken deal that when we are emanating this energy of self-love, others will love us better. If all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players, my play involves a lot of rough handling by others, acceptance of them, coming to the point of realising that they are damaged and act out their sense of rejection by rejecting me, and finally forgiving them. My play has a lot of fear-driven self-protection, both in my behaviour and the behaviour of others. The second act has loads of self-enquiry and deep understanding of my character. The third begins with a lot of love for others, a lot of self-forgetting, a sense of not needing to be validated by those around me. Then the whole thing imploded. Instead of the big payoff of happiness and contentment, the protagonist died. That's me. I died. And the story was just a story, albeit one that still has great passion and intensity. The play is now about living, in free fall, not knowing, not making deals with life, just being. Pain is still painful; joy soars. But it's not going anywhere, there is no big climactic resolution. Anything might appear to happen at anytime. The story is just a parable, yet just as involving as ever. The story is it. This is it, and it's happening to no one. Happening as it must. The character is not understood, but lived. And although there is no agenda to sell this story, and simply being is impossible to describe, it is bigger and more profound than anything my character could imagine. It is without bounds, and not in time. It is.

Why Pursue Awakening?

What is the point of awakening, if that's what we're calling it today? There isn't one. It seems to come up. When there is nothing else to pursue, sometimes people get a whisper of the concept of awakening from an encounter with Buddhism or the non-duality "movement" or whatever. When the pursuit of other things either proves elusive, or, as often seems the case, things like wealth or love or altruism or raising a family are achieved and the capture of them brings no fulfillment, awakening seems the only thing worthy of pursuing. When devotion to some certain religion brings no answer to the question of existence, people often conclude that it's a change of perception that they need. They find a charismatic teacher that they promptly project every lover and hero onto, and they think, oh yes, I want what that person has. He is enlightened. He goes about in a cloud of bliss and tranquility, he is possessed of great wisdom and contentedness, he is actualised, he is really himself, and I want all of those things. Plus he seems to have a lot of magnetism and everyone wants to sleep with him. Give me some of that, please! So the chosen guru gives a lot of writing assignments and satsangs and lessons and practices that will finally shrink the individual down to nothing, thus making awakening possible. It's just another story. There is no point to awakening, no more than there is a point to anything else. The point of everything is that it is simply there, and we are that. Life is its own answer. You are peeling potatoes and suddenly, ah. This is it. How could it not be seen before? Whether you feel worthy or not is just a story. How many gaps in your thinking you can achieve in meditation is just a story. Liberation is not at the end of some course of study, or some period of seclusion and self-enquiry. It is the death of the thing that looks for it. And there is nothing the dreamer can do to shatter the dream that does not reinforce it. Awakening, or whatever we're calling it this week, is always everything. It is always available, there's no getting away from it, it is the biggest thing around, it allows everything and encompasses everything and it is already everything. But there is nothing wrong with attending a deeply satisfying satsang, and coming away from it fancying the guru madly. It all happens as it must. All of it.

What Is This Like?

It is like it is. This is it. Whatever seems to be happening is absolute wholeness and unconditional love, or whatever you care to label it. It's exactly like it always was, but seen for what it is, without fearful filters. Everything still happens just as it always has seemed to. The difference seems to be the lack of quiet desperation. There is no need for reassurance that everything will be OK, there is no one who needs that reassurance. Goals come up, urges to create, but they are enjoyed for what they are. Fear comes up, doubt, resistance, all of that, yet it isn't so overwhelming; there is no one to be threatened. There is a sense of eternity and infinity within the contraction of life, a little life, just trundling along as it always has seemed to. Questions arise, but only in the course of things, not The Big Question. There is no one to ask it. Nor anyone to answer. There's not the extra added layer of a little someone, all alone, needing to be loved and taken care of and afraid of dying. The moment of death has happened. The freedom from the bondage of self is something a lot of friends of mine hold in high esteem. The freedom is immense, much more profound than most apparent individuals suspect. It is like nothing else; it is like nothing at all.

You Can't Become What You Already Are.

I apparently hang out with a lot of people who are terribly interested in becoming something other than what they already are. What they are is usually judged to be either lacking, or too much. They seem to think they lack humility, and have too much ego. Selfishness is denigrated and selflessness held in esteem. Personality traits are studied. Feelings, and the apparent reasons for them, are scrutinised. Great unwieldy rucksacks of guilt are noticed, and many steps are taken to alleviate that guilt, and to make sure that nothing offensive is done to add to the burden; if someone violates their moral code, and adds to the whacking great sack of guilt, an immediate apology is recommended. Many of these people think so badly of themselves that if they take a wrong step, in their estimation, their immediate reflex is to destroy themselves. So they have made an apparent choice to stop destroying and start creating something they can be proud of, and don't have to feel remorseful about, and thus never try to destroy themselves and those around them again. Many of these people, so separate and alone for so long, have found some kind of higher power that looks after them, that helps them, that takes over for them and handles the business of their life with greater proficiency than they ever could in their little dream of separation. Many of these people have found great peace. Their story is a "better" one, they have meaning and purpose (generally to help others). The goal is peace of mind and happiness. The tool used for anything that seems to intrude in their life that is unpleasant is acceptance. And there is nothing wrong with all this. In fact, the stories are glorious, the energies sweet and powerful. But it's not what I'm talking about, or trying to.

They are perfect, these people, they are beautiful in their neuroses and anger and their reprehensible, selfish behaviour. Just as they are, they are already perfect, their apparent contribution in balance. Perhaps they'll realise they were perfect all along. But if not, it doesn't matter. Even the not realising is perfect.

Nothing Is Familiar.

Looking at the moon is a new thing every time now. It's a surprise. How did that get there? Whoa. Intense. There is no process really, but if there was, it seems to be deepening. The handrail of our staircase is a new master class in smoothness every time. Our living room, having not been decorated for a decade, is a brand new environment. Where am I? says my mind. And people! My goodness, what encounters they are. What energies they emanate. What bundles of crackling raw life. What newnesses they all are, even those there seem to be many ordinary memories about. It puts me in mind of a recurring joke in our household, based on the quasi-scientific nugget of wisdom about goldfish; apparently, their long term memory only stretches to about 5 seconds. They can never be bored. So the goldfish is swimming along in his bowl, thinking, this is nice. That's a nice fake castle. WHOA! Where the hell am I? Well, this is nice. Oh, look at that lovely fake castle. Let's have a look...WHOA! Where the hell am I? Wherever it is, it seems perfect. What's that over there? WHOA! Where the hell am I?

Everything is a surprise, everything is new. Even the most ordinary things. I have been turned, so it seems, inside out.

It Really Doesn't Matter.

It doesn't matter. None of it does. As the story of life seems to unfold, it can seem that meaninglessness and purposelessness lead down the road to suicide and despair. It is only in the dream of separation that nothing is so frightening. When there is no one, meaninglessness is simply what it is, and there is nothing wrong with it. In fact the meaninglessness of a life, and the conniptions to make that life work, once the seeker is gone, is a life fully realised. There is meaning in every apparent blink, each tiny thought, each apparent footfall. The meaning is the blink, the thought, the footfall. Sweetly rich and indescribably beautiful.

So Obvious.

This is big, yet big doesn't begin to cover it. We are not sentenced to live in duality. Where there is clarity about this, there is often a sense of resignation, of "well, I'm not going to get it anyway, so I'd better make the best of this life." There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Like everything else, it is mere appearance, and seemingly unfolds in perfection and wholeness. But when the dreamer dies, when the seeker drops away, when there is no one there, but just life, happening to no one - then the boundlessness of what we are is evident. Life isn't so narrow and fear-driven. Fears may arise, the story may seem to carry on, everything carries on much as it always did, but apparently much more smoothly and efficiently. Some of the old longings and wants and needs still may seem to arise, there may be loss and grief and heartache, all of it may seem intense and involving, but there is little sense of that silent desperation that it all needs to be terribly important, to mean so much. Its meaning is its apparent existence, the great play of life. It can be seen that there is no duality, no me or you, object or subject, the wall over there and the chair over here, whilst still in the appearance of it. It cannot be described. But it can be sensed. Even behind the thickest veil of personal identity, there is nothing but this. It is even the dream of separation. This is everything, and "you" are that.

There Is Only One. Who Cares?

"We live in duality," (apparently) said a friend of "mine" yesterday. We live. Duality is the play, the fun, the balance. It is the seeming product of the mind doing its dividing thing. There's certainly nothing wrong with diving in there and participating in the story for all it's worth. There is no one who chooses to do that or not do that. Absolutely anything might happen at any given "moment", including seeing this. Including whatever horror or pleasure the imagination part of the mind can come up with. What is not often seen, or so it seems, is that these are not "our" thoughts. They are being, thought-ing. They are gifts given by no one to no one. These words go around and around, because they are necessarily dualistic. It is especially difficult to explain that there is no one who needs to "awaken." We are all already that. There is only beingness, or oneness, everything and everyone and every thought and every feeling is only one. The mind and body, they are beautiful mechanisms for being to play at two-ing. But what is the mind and body? Energy, says science. What is seeing and hearing, touching and thinking? Energy, just little electrical impulses. Through science, the mind is surprisingly brought to the conclusion that what is so solid and measurable is not truly there, but is only a little signal in the computer of the brain. The brain, whose component atoms are only energy. This, I suppose, is what is meant by reality - or what is taken by most apparent individuals to be reality - being illusory. We dream, and in the dream the objects seem solid, but they are indisputably just firings of the synapses. Our apparent waking life is no different. Oh, it all seems very solid and real, but that's just for convenience. Perhaps not just convenience. Perhaps, just perhaps, it is all celebration. Whatever it is that seems to be manifesting, is celebration. Even those things the mind divides into "good" and "bad", all of it is celebration. Nothing missing, nothing wrong, nothing right, just whole and complete and wondrous as it is. Everything I thought I had been looking for in the story of my life was always there, cleverly hidden. And in this dropping away of me, the most outrageously interesting and thrilling things seem to be arising. Whatever they seem to be, they are just energy, just little electrical sparks revealing to my eyes and ears and brain what the story seems to be. And the wonder of that is only little sparkings too. We and everything are so much more.

"I've" Fallen In Love.

It's just the story, mind you, literally "mind" you, but there seems to be falling in love arising. Dropping the pedantic semantics - which, by the way, If I never did, I'd never say anything - I've fallen in love with life. There is such a sweetness and richness to its quality; this was always its nature, but was hidden. There is no process in time that happens due to cause and effect, but what unfolds is less of a veil, no veil, in fact there never was any veil. The richness and wholeness, sweetness and fullness simply is, and I am that. All in this endless moment that is not now, for "now" implies "then". It is simply this, this that is all, this that is what we are, boundless and timeless, unspectacular and absolute. There is no story in time, but I have wandered from the desert, and meandered into the garden.

Some stories teach, some horrify, and some refresh.

There Is Nothing Wrong.

In the story in time that seems to unfold, it is noticed that a lot of goals arise that there doesn't seem to be enough time or energy to fulfill. Frustration arises, and then resignation. Muddling along as best I can also comes up a lot. What is missing is the investment. A goal fulfilled brings joy, but nothing here is counting on it anymore. The apparent journey of getting to the goal is as fulfilling as the goal completion, but not because of some self-help notion along the lines of "the destination is the journey". It is already that. What happens, or seems to be happening, is exactly what must. There are no regrets. Regret that arises is seemingly fleeting, and has nothing to hook onto. There is no one to have a goal, no one to complete it, but these things sometimes seem to come up. Just as I don't sit at this keyboard and type, but sitting and typing happen, goals happen and they are fulfilled or not, but not by "me". This is scary to the individual. The idea that there is no one with nowhere to go, that this is timeless boundlessness despite appearances, makes no sense - nor will it ever. The notion that there is no meaning to these desperately important little bits and pieces that seem to make up a life is anathema to everything that we have apparently been taught. Nobody wants to die. But the funny thing is, without overlaying what happens with "me", it all happens much more smoothly, or seems to. Strangely, now that it doesn't matter, all the things that I had ever hoped for as an individual seem to begin to happen. Paradoxically, now that there is no value put on being an individual, simply because it has dropped away, my apparent character flourishes. It is celebrated. I become quirkier, more interesting, freer, more fearless, more content. But there was never any deal. There is no one to make a deal. Even if the apparent story seems to become more Job-like, filled with unfairness and trials, it is still just what seems to be happening. What is, is so much more than that. What is, simply is, and each apparent atom of it shines. What seems to happen is never wrong, even the thought that there is something wrong. Nor is it right. It is.

It is such freedom. Such incomprehensible liberation.

Excitement Arises.

It never ceases to amaze, listening to people going on about their lives, what's wrong and the solutions they have concocted. It seems faintly absurd and very sweet, how very seriously it is all taken. It's not just the trials of growing older or the frustration of seeing a child go "off the rails" or fretting about the sustainability of population growth. If life is a parable of a greater possibility, most people don't see it. Or they organise it within an inch of its life and call it God and give it rules. There are no rules, there is especially no great tapestry that can be seen wherein everything falls into place, the answers to the problems are clear, and what the "real" problems are become clearer. What is missed is there's nothing wrong. What is overlooked is that there are no separate entities with will and volition, that we are, to use a favoured analogy, just projections on a screen. In the middle of "It's A Wonderful Life," Jimmy Stewart never hires a hit man (Bert or Ernie?) to pop off old man Potter and thus rid his family and the town of a great deal of suffering. It unfolds just as it always does. The images of light have feelings and challenges, they do this and that, but they have no choice about what they do. They are the light, made into interesting images. And so are all of us. We are that light. No matter what brand of abuse or saintly behaviour unfolds on the screen, it is all light.

The freedom of this is so immense as to be incommunicable. Relief rises in awareness, that's for sure! But that doesn't mean it's somehow wrong to fret or take action to change things for the better. It's neither right or wrong, as is everything. If those thoughts come up, and the strong feelings accompany, and their subsequent "appropriate" actions occur, that's all just fine, and it didn't come from "you" or "me". Thoughts are a gift, they don't originate from any dream person; they are. Life is not a prison, without putting "me" on top of it. It is boundless.

Existential Crises Are Just Fine. Just Don't Tell Me What To Think!

It often seems that many of us are gripped by an existential crisis. Why do we need a reason to exist? When it is seen that there is no one to own such a crisis, that nothing happens to no one, that the appearance is exactly as it should be, existential crisis is entirely moot.

Just read the paper. Every inch screams from between the newsprint how we should feel, what we should think, what it is appropriate for us to be outraged by. Lords trying to change the laws on behalf of their employers? Outrageous! No matter that this is how it's been done forever. No, no, it's terrible, we have rules to follow, lest anarchy encroach. Lest inequality prevail. And what else? The fashion industry is about to embark on a season of giant earrings? Earrings that deform the earlobe? Untenable. An enlarged pierced ear hole is anathema to the sweet, gentle, caring way we must all be looking after ourselves. Health is the most important thing. Be outraged by this willful deformity of earlobes! It is wrong. And what's this? Love isn't being taught in the home anymore! Today's children don't trust, according to a poll (a very important and accurate poll) as much as they used to. They are adversely affected by society's rampant individualism. The cure is to emphasize love and respect in education, policy and personal life. Love is the answer. Be incensed by this stark portrait of social breakdown! We are all bad, life is bad, society is bad, we're not doing well enough, we're not doing enough, we're not enough! It is not enough!

It is never enough. We will never get there. There is nowhere to go, and no one going there. Look elsewhere and counter-wisdom is written, pointing out that humanity's no. 1 goal is to produce more humanity. In the story that unfolds it remains the ultimate goal, perpetuation, but perhaps not by having as many children as possible, but rather by the better nurturing of fewer. There are apparent small solutions to perceived problems along the way. There is seeming anarchy, in pockets, and nice people and naughty people. There are those who deform themselves somewhat to achieve a certain aesthetic, and there are those who wash, dress and run out the door, never looking in a mirror. Some people bemoan the state of society, others point out its advances. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

This liberation, it seems, is just the freedom from taking the story too seriously.