Saturday, 20 June 2009

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.

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