Wednesday, 4 February 2009

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.

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