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.

Thou Art A Soul In Bliss; But I Am Bound Upon A Wheel Of Fire.

Here's a clip of Pamela Wilson, who speaks lowly and slowly and is obviously totally spiritual, talking about "coming home". The story she tells of seeing Yo Yo Ma doing a duet with a bird is a great one. I suppose what's she's talking about could possibly be called "The Zone". We've hopefully all been in The Zone at least once, and it rocks; it is life, fitting like a custom-made glove. The Zone can be described as being naturally hyper-aware, effortlessly interacting with great efficiency and creativity with whatever is happening - just going with it - with no resistance or apparent separation, and very little thought. It's an admirable state, and one probably worth cultivating, if cultivating it is indeed possible.

Well, I take no issue with Pamela Wilson no matter how veggie and into meditation she may be. However, it's all The Zone. It's tempting to berate ourselves every time we seem to plod along in our story, full of resistance and resentment, separate above all, wishing things were different than they are. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what twists and turns the story takes, or how completely absorbing the world of the separate, disconsolate, discontented mind may seem. It's all The Zone; whatever it is, is oneness in the fascinating and multifaceted guise of separation. Oneness doesn't care if there is apparent separation. Oneness is, whether it is appreciated (by itself) or not. So don't despair of never reaching some higher plane, some "better" state of being; or do despair, if despair is what is there. In the story, whatever seems to be will surely change. Whatever this is, it is wholeness, perfection, The Zone; and you are whole, complete and perfect just as you are, for you are The Zone. You can't be anything else. You are.

Time Is Their Master, And, When They See Time, They'll Go Or Come.

Life, the appearance, or whatever we're calling it today, is often full of surprises. It has the most marvelous, unpredictable twists and turns. The "fruits of wisdom" often become available in life-stories of struggle, suffering and redemption. Life, just as it is presented, in its ultimate unpredictability, will often carry with it intrinsically the practices that bear the fruits of wisdom; self-questioning, clearing house, and accepting what is without needing to change it or run away from it, to name a few. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." This phrase conveys the multifariousness, the infinite possibility of what is. Even a grounded common sense informs us that we often don't know what is "good" for us, or how any particular circumstance will turn out; anything might happen. And does. Including enlightenment, or whatever we're calling it today, "happening" for a devoted traditional practitioner, or WHAMMO! It hits out of the blue to someone who was never even a spiritual seeker.

The stories unfold on the crux of a twinkling of energy; all those thoughts and feelings that string the thing together - just firing neurons, neurons composed of atomic nothingness. I know there are children and bill collectors, bosses and boyfriends, crushing guilt and enormous responsibility, or great joy and fulfillment 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 to 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, or merely be aware of itself; a means by which our senses and bodies have some voice and movement, a tool so that nothingness can be something, for the mere pleasure and pain of pure existence. If the mind is seemingly not engaged, as is what can happen in meditation, perhaps timelessness is more obvious. But such quieting of the mind is not necessary. There is nothing other than wholeness, completeness, oneness, here and now, "always". There is nothing to get "in the future". This is everything, right here, right now. Do nothing, and you are what you are, which is everything. Or do whatever seems like the next correct step, the next well-pondered decision. It doesn't matter. There are no mistakes. There is room for it all. There must be; it is.

Nay, An A' Do Nothing But Speak Nothing, A' Shall Be Nothing Here.

What Should I Do?

Make the fine mind dull.
Do not ask questions more;
For questions blind the mind,
A willing whore,

To any formula of final rest.
The place, the answer, wrought of genius games;
A thrilling meadow of the sunlit quest,
Where senseless sanity will soothe and soar.

Pry the hard heart wide.
Reject not any thing.
For hatred kills, divides.
So, hastening,

Move in the gentle grace of needless care.
The purposeful yet natural way of love;
A constant giving paean of love's fare,
Where all-inclusiveness will Zion bring.

Do nothing at all.
Surrender treasured goal;
For thoughts and actions, as they are,
Are whole,

And flow around the center of all lives.
This is the place, the goal wrought of itself.
All, as it is, is bounty, and it thrives,
With or without the mind and heart and soul.

S. Foxton 2009.

Describe Adonis, And The Counterfeit Is Poorly Imitated After You.

No words or concepts can capture this, whatever it is we're attempting to describe. There is no true path to it. There is no perfect pointer. Labeling it "unconditional love, that accepts all and cannot reject itself" or "the only constant, awareness, the center around which life flows" is unimportant. There is no manual that describes the perfect way to be. Words describing immediate, direct experience, where there is no doer, only what is done, are still a description. Whether the ego is rejected, or seen through and embraced, doesn't matter. Whether frantic seekers "get this" or not matters not; if not getting it is what is, that is what is. Perhaps meditation is the key, and the drooping seeker finally rests in awareness, directly and flawlessly, just pure being. That may be the goal, but it is no better or worse than any other. Whether the conditioning of the mind/body is broken down and dissected and finally defeated, or whether that conditioning is seen as the character, choiceless and not needing any meddling with - neither of these is the goal; or perhaps, both of them are. Whatever it is, it is this. Whatever this is, it is. Life is its own purpose, and the appearance of life is simply what is seems to be, whatever that is. There's no way to get it wrong; there's no way to get it right. Whatever your responses or reactions seem to be, they are perfect. No matter how definitively absolute awareness is described, it is nothing more nor less than this; and even such simplicity is only a description. There is nobody that needs to "awaken". We are all "awake", whether it is seen as "there is no one", or whether it is seen as "there is only love"; whether it is insisted upon that awakening can never occur without others, or that awakening must occur in solitude; whether a lucid life, seen through as a dream, is taken hold of and lived to the fullest, or whether a complete surrender happens and the doer is taken for a wild ride, in free-fall. It is all just as it is.

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguiled.

The ego, said a friend of mine once, is like an abandoned child, embraced again when it is seen that ego is this too. There is nothing wrong with your reactions and responses. There is absolutely no choice; the paradox of apparent choice, even carefully worked out decisions, gravely considered and deliberately executed, are the actions of a life lived. In the story of awakening - no more nor less important than any other story - this paradox is often the last thing the mind has trouble with, that it wrestles with, grapples with, frets over, and cannot make head nor tail of. Perhaps oneness is seen, and even understood a bit by the overtaxed and overvalued mind. Then why is the day-to-day, the mundane, the story of life dependent on time - why does that seem to still go on? Why do we encourage our children to get a good education and fulfill their potential if fulfillment is truly this, just what exists, right now? Why do we continue to sort out the admin of life, pay parking tickets, work for the mortgage or rent, question the systems of governance and do our best to make the world a better place, if the world is truly perfect as it is? Why is the story - duality - apparently still bought into? Why do we groom ourselves and educate ourselves and volunteer our time and try very hard to do the next right thing if there is nothing wrong with us? Why do we still meditate, pray to some deity outside ourselves, or have a heartfelt conversation with a troubled friend, if there is no state of mind or action better or worse than any other? Why don't we - as expected, as anticipated when awakening was sought - turn away from all this, and live only in this everlasting moment, completely unconcerned with the machinations of life, and the comforts of the material world? Why is it not turned away from, why does it not hold no appeal whatsoever?

Because there is no choice. You do not choose what is chosen. You do not do what is done. This is the everlasting moment, whether it is apprehended or not. So whatever it is, it is; there is never any say in it; in this choicelessness is liberation. Gather up the ego-child and give him a hug.

Why Either Were You Ignorant To See't, Or, Seeing It, Of Such Childish Friendliness To Yield Your Voices?

Life flows by the center, or it seems to; it only ever did. This is that ever. The person it all seems to happen to, perhaps constructed so lovingly, or perhaps wrought in a furnace of anger and fear and hot confusion, that person, that construct, that conditioning, can slip away - or seem to - and be embraced and accepted and loved. Whoever you are, however you are understood, whatever poignancies arise for the person it all seems to effect and that affects others; wherever you are in your story, however inadequate the construct seems, or however powerful and in charge of it all you seem to be - you are perfect, complete and whole, just as you are. And although there is no formula, no road map, no proscribed handbook detailing How To Live the Perfect Life or How to Be the Perfect Human, there is this: compassion. Gentleness. What can arise is not judging yourself - your character - and others for being human. This isn't the goal, but when there is no one, or the self that seems to operate in the world is not so despotic, then a sense of compassion often seems to arise. "It's all about love:" so many non-duality writers are fond of this pointer. In fact, it's all love. All of life, the cosmos, our friends and family, war torn nations afar or in our back yard, rage and murderous anger, irrational self-righteousness, fear and its destructive, protective actions - all of it - is love manifest. You are that love. Completely, flawlessly, despite apparent flaws. The movement of life flows by, in perfection; you never move or change, and you are the apparent flow. When this is seen, compassion is likely, in any story that seems to unfold.

Best State, Contentless, Hath A Distracted And Most Wretched Being, Worse Than The Worst, Content.

What confusion, what bedlam, the mind can generate. There may be nothing wrong with it, but feeling uncomfortable comes with it some survival-driven urge to feel better. Pain is there, "they" say, to tell you that something is wrong; something being wrong is only valid in the philosophy that life must be maintained at all costs - organic life - and it is a philosophy and code of conduct easy to understand, borne of the evolutionary programming to survive, and create more organic life. So mankind struggles and survives, driven both by the questioning mind and the unquestioning body, the mind often questioning the simple drive to live right out of existence. Push and pull, tug and tussle, conflicts arise, so many of them contained within the small vessel of the individual, even before the handy conflicts between individuals get a chance to rev up.

So what is the goal in all this? What is the point? The message is there is no point; no answers, no questions, and no one who needs them. Whatever happens is the point, or whatever appears to happen. If what happens is a serene existence - the goal of many a seeker - then that is what is happening. Perhaps, in that story, there is a pining for the thrust and pull and challenge of the human condition, lost now in a haze of love; the moral of many stories of redemption and dreams realised, is that the psyche can still itch to have a challenge to pursue. Challenges can arise, no matter how fulfilled and content the protagonist in the story is. Resting forever in awareness, the mind will whisper, sounds boring. Perhaps it is, but it is likely that, without much claiming or discontent arising, the boundlessness of existence can be more obvious. The story of your life is not "just" a story. Contained in every apparent happening is the wholeness of what is; and whether it is seen or not, matters not. Life as it is lived, however that is, is the perfect expression, the parable of what is so simple it cannot be described. Life moves around the center, flows by, and the center never changes. The center, awareness, oneness, the absolute, I Am, whatever the label, is what both seeks and hides behind the seeking. There is not much in the story, the strand of cause and effect, that can illuminate the absolute, although it is in the story that so many look for it. It is what makes the story possible, and what is the story, and what is everything. So don't worry about an "enlightened" life being boring; don't hesitate to seek for fear of what is finally found may not be the ideal. There is nothing to find; it was never lost; and all that bedlam of the mind is just as beautiful an expression of it as anything that seems to be.

A Pack of Sorrows Which Would Press You Down, Being Unprevented, To Your Timeless Grave.

It's all very well, bandying about concepts or pointers or what have you along the lines of "there are no questions, there are no answers." So there aren't. What's left, when all the extra stuff of humanity is stripped away, conceptually or otherwise, is one, or presence, or the still source, or whatever we're calling it today. (I'm pretty keen on calling it Fred for awhile and seeing if that pointer moves "anyone". However, it might be confusing for the Freds of the world.) Fair enough if you've surfed and ended up here, or on any of these nonduality websites, a "spiritual seeker", having a moment of existential angst, doing that "what's it all about" thingy that has caused so much cosmic hand-wringing; these concepts are more or less what you expect. There are a lot of to-the-point pointers around, lots of good stuff about "you are the center, and life flows around you", or "how can 'awakening' possibly be something in the future, all is oneness, complete and whole as it is, so seek what is, right now"; or "you are all you see, feel, hear, touch, smell, taste and think," and don't forget "my" favourite: "nothing exists, despite appearances." Then some more concepts can fly about, stuff about the nature of the brain, the illusory essence of reality, just electrical impulses, what seems so solid isn't there at all, the very nature of matter itself seems, scientifically, a nature of nothingness, whose physics change when apparently observed (by itself). And we can marvel, and sort of get it, even the brain gets it, then it somehow becomes clear there is nothing to get. Whatever's been happening is all there is, and it's "been" that way "all along". So no questions, no answers, just the miracle of existence, lived.

But if someone surfs up to this website, or another similar one, and sees concepts like "there are no questions, there are no answers," they might get upset if they're not a typical "spiritual seeker". If they're an educator, they might get angry - it's difficult enough to motivate young people into the sciences, there is a shortage of scientists as it is; we certainly don't need anyone spouting off metaphysically about no questions and no answers! Happily, these websites are on the fringe, and the concepts they espouse are not probably going to take the world by storm; there is no need. Anyone concerned with the apathetic tendencies of humanity, another fruit of fear, will be outraged that to read of the idea that there is nothing wrong with suffering, taking that to mean that the oppressed should be left to their fate, with no intervention, or that the criminal should be unpunished, or that the heinous deed should be sympathised with. But any outraged reader is another step of the dance. So is the criminal, and the mercenary; so are the misguided enforcers of a limited brand of righteousness. Yet so is the healer, so is the red cross worker, so is Abdul Sattar Edhi and all the selfless, tireless workers for the dignity of humanity; they wouldn't be swayed by the ambivalent musings of some enlightenment devotee. Their role in the dance is clear. Anyone concerned that the noblest, best tendencies of humanity might be diluted by some fatalism or solipsism, some surrender that suggests that since nothing can be done, nothing should be done, perhaps may rest assured that each urge must have its opposite to even exist. Even those who fear the machinations of some elusive Illuminati, forever distracting us-we, the herd of common humanity-from holding any real power over our lives, they can go on with their crusade for societal freedom. Nothing changes, yet everything changes. There is nothing to be done, yet we will be lived. There is no separate entity, some little me or you, that can claim anything, though claiming may stridently arise. Everything ever sought, is right here, and what is sought is what seeks, always eluding any pat description. Revel in it.

It Prefers Itself And Leaves Unquestion'd Matters Of Needful Value.

There can be phenonmenon that seem to reinforce oneness, yet within those phenonmenon is always the story of duality trying to apprehend the source. It is sometimes easy to perceive that what is in one's field of vision occupies no space; it is, after all, an image in your brain, in your head, which is yet another image when a mirror or reflective surface appears. What feels so solid is just information, interpreted by the computer of the brain. And so you might wonder around with this new perception, and find it is accompanied by a feeling of great revelation and freedom; the illusory nature of reality is, at last, revealed; we are nothing but some fleeting energy, finding a temporary construct; and that goes for the stars, all the distant galaxies, even an achingly beautiful nebula. Space itself, you realise, occupies no space. That thing about nothing existing finally comes a bit clearer.

There is a unbridled feeling of awe in it, the tenuous connection that the little self has to the vastness of everything, revealed to be nothing. There is no reason to try to explain or describe it; it eludes all containment in concept, and the very nature of the revelation puts paid to any questioning or need for answers: there is truly no one who needs answers, there are no answers, no questions. Whatever you label your perceived scrap of humanity, it is the light and the window, it is everything and nothing, not a piece or a part, but all of it. For there is only one, and that is you, complete, whole and brilliant, whether there seem to be doubts or questions, bliss or sorrow, answers or despair, simplicity or chaos, or whatever it is that seems to be.

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.

There Is No Wrong, But Every Thing Is Right.

Whatever It Seems

Whatever it seems, it matters not.
Not in the usual way;
However desperate, hurtful, fraught,
Swept wholly in the fray,

Anxiety will take its toll,
A cantilevered cause,
Alone, afraid, pitiable soul,
Then: pregnant, blissful pause,

And trembling with grave import,
The wayward, angry child,
This life to sort,
Its chaos so reviled,

Will be a stormy teacup.
A misinterpretation.
A tiny hiccup
Holding all creation.

Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From The Heart: The Effect Doth Operate Another Way.

Very, very interesting stuff floating around, appearance all, yet fascinating. The Rules Of Nonduality I published in a blog entry a few days ago were latched onto, apparently, by some folks at the Church of the Churchless. The gentle and loving mocking of everything that seems to be is how the expression comes out here, but it was taken terribly seriously by some commenters; see the comments here, here and here. Well, indeed, my feelings were terribly hurt. Don't they realise I'm an important oracle for Oneness? Don't they realise just how terribly admired and respected I am? Don't they have compassion for a soul such as I, whose story is so filled with suffering, yet which I have courageously risen above? Why don't they like me? EVERYBODY MUST LIKE ME!!! Before any readers are captured on this river of words, the musings of the character in the story of "my" life, please note - that these sort of feelings and thoughts may fleetingly arise, but they are ironically humourous; the transitory feelings are noted (by no one; noting happens) as they slide away quickly, with nothing to cling to; certainly nothing to claim them is here, or anywhere. The whole thing is extremely amusing as only the Cosmic Joke can be, and words will never capture something that isn't a concept. This will certainly be dismissed by those apparent individuals who are still in the thrall of the despotic mind. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being in the thrall of the despotic mind, by the way. It seems to be nearly the sum total of what we call the world and its inhabitants, their apparent thoughts, their overwhelming feelings, their quite beautiful human struggle to make sense of the whole life thing. Some words about absolute reality or whatever we're calling it today use quite strong words, pointing with vehemence at the futility of seeking, trying to perhaps bring about with shock the shift of perception that makes seeing oneness possible; that there is no one, just oneness, life-ing is reiterated. Some use gentle and welcoming language, some are exceedingly matter-of-fact, but sadly, there is no way to communicate what so many try to write and talk about; there is no way to describe the ineffable. Those seekers like the folks (some of them) at Church of the Churchless will say that that's all very convenient, not being able to adequately defend something by saying it's ineffable. Yet that's another guise of oneness, to hide itself playfully behind the mind, and it is as full of beauty as is everything else that seems to appear. It was quite poignant when one commenter stated that there was very little bliss in the world, but a lot of suffering; perhaps, in the appearance, bliss just doesn't make the news as often. Little thoughts arise of wanting to help, wanting to lift the veil, wanting to make clear the obvious, the lack of separation, the exuberant dance of life, just as it is; yet these are ego-mutterings too, sliding away, although sometimes not before some hopefully helpful words are written, by no one.

Words, Words, Words.

So many words out there, just here, everywhere, questioning, debating, judging, and sometimes making conclusions. Where do all these words come from? Where does anything come from? It is simply what it is. So many words about thoughts; thoughts are just "mind-farts", as Charlie Hayes (see links to left) says; thoughts create more thoughts, trying to be more than thoughts; a belief system is constructed, to keep the unsafe world away, the world that is not me. The little thing that thinks it thinks, that thinks it chooses not to believe the thoughts - a piece of advice that often comes up - the rather sweet little thing that lashes out when threatened, or sometimes withdraws, sometimes despairs, sometimes rejoices when the world aligns with the expectations the belief system has begot; that sweet and vulnerable thing is the separate self, that claims the thoughts, believes or sometimes rejects them, and finds the feelings either fabulous or unbearable. It wants to live, it wants the world to say it is OK; this self-awareness, which, in the story of the world is mankind's burden or else his saviour, this thing is the only sense the mind can make of duality. Good and bad, right and wrong, subject and object, we grapple with the thoughts that swirl to make sense of what is, and to make sense of the awareness of what is; it seems difficult to just live. So many words are written to figure it all out, to pin it down, to make it understandable and safe. Yet what is, is, and the words themselves can be dismissed as useless or praised as pointers to the ultimate truth, the absolute of being, the source of it all; the words are quibbled with, dissected, concepts honed and streamlined until they are very narrow indeed; and the actions the concepts and words engender are bemoaned as wrong, so very wrong, each mirror of intolerance not tolerated, each judgement judged harshly, and with anger. Yet all of this is what is, and what is, is what is. So much struggle to get IT right, even though perfection whispers through every atom of being, I am, I am, is it not enough that I am? The intolerance, the endless struggle, the fear, and don't forget the joy, the bliss, the happiness; so often, in the messages these endless words engender, there is a goal of ending suffering, removing fear, seeing beyond the small self and its fearful ego concerns, and the terrible actions these fears sometimes enable. This may seem to come to pass, or not. There will be words about nonduality, words to try to describe the ineffable, words to dismiss the ineffable as a mere concept, words that say we are right, and you are wrong, so wrong you must be stopped, so wrong you must be punished. And all of this that seems to be is without meaning; yet whole and just as it is. Filled with beauty and grace, or whatever inadequate word one wishes to saddle it with.