In the Apparent Story That Seems to Unfold...

Although there is no time, except to the mind, this morning the time it took to put it all together seemed longer. I wandered to the bathroom to relieve myself not quite knowing yet who I was; what the plans were for the day; what I planned to wear; not remembering yet my heart was broken, and that I was grieving, although the feelings were there. I went and took care of the most basic human requirement just the same. It doesn't need "me" hung onto it for it to happen. "I" arise, and there is nothing wrong with that. My silly mind is quite pleased this now seems "proven" even though it knocks its quiet aspiration to be all-important again. That will never happen, in the apparent story that seems to unfold.

Words are fun but bloody useless. What I seem to be trying to talk about has nothing to do with words, where there is always a subject and an object. But the urge to talk, or write, about this is strong. There is no agenda, just an urge. There is no one to have an agenda. In fact there is no one. There is no one who suffers, there is suffering. There is no one who "awakens", there is what is just as it is. There is no one who needs to "awaken", just this appearance in which everything that seems to be is perfect in its apparent form. Doubt, separation, longing, it is all just as it should be by virtue of its being. It exists; that is its beauty, and it needs nothing hung onto it, although hanging identity onto it is also perfect. As I apparently sit here typing, the boundlessness of what is behind all this and yet encompasses it stuns me, it is just so sexy and wondrous and full-on and utterly indescribable. But to try to describe the ineffable is just fine too.

Incongruities arise. Paradox is norm.

Another apparent day, another apparent bevy of tasks. But it is different, this new perception. "Before" (in the seeming story in time, ruled by cause and effect) I did the tasks. "Now", the tasks are done. There is sitting in the chair, there is typing on the keyboard, words are written, no one prints them out. Last night I took some poor woman hostage after our 12-step programme meeting. We sat, apparently, and chatted. "Nothing matters," I told her in quite a few more words than that, "yet everything is a miracle by virtue of it's mere, illusory, existence." She nodded and listened and told me bits about her apparent journey through time. "It doesn't matter what nonsense you have going through your mind," she told me, "I'm willing to listen. Call me anytime." We hang so much onto existence. All there is, is this, and though the mind protests "How could 'this' ever possibly be enough?" there is nothing else. Yet all that we seem to hang onto existence, paradoxically, is perfect as it is, as is everything. Everything happens just as it should. How could it be otherwise? All that we seem to abhor is merely balance. There has always "been" balance, there will always "be" balance, no matter how many apparent individuals seem to strive for "a better world." Goals seem to arise, to be President of the United States, for instance, for the mind/body organism that we call Barack Obama. Yet he does not exist, he has no volition, it is beingness or aliveness or consciousness or the One (or whatever inadequate label we're using today) Barack Obama-ing. Timeless being, sweetness, unconditional acceptance and love. No matter if it feels a bit sad, for "I" am still in the desert, embracing my humanity. Incongruously. Perfectly.

Another day of incongruency. Been so low now, apparently for a couple of months. The bereavement is immense, yet bearable. I seem to mourn everything I ever thought was my life, having seen that nothing matters, it is a dream. But the dream is a miracle by virtue of it's very (seeming) existence. Mere (apparent) existence is its beauty, be what arises sorrow or joy or cruelty or kindness or pain or euphoria. It is all impeccably in balance. Yet incongruously, "I" am in the desert, waiting to fall in love with it all. It is love, complete and whole, utterly accepting of all apparent manifestion; it is all apparent manifestation. The words fall flat. It cannot reject itself, it is itself. And I seem to reach out, grasping for some words, and find that no one can identify, despite being it all "themselves". Utterly alone, yet not existing. So low, so low. Nothing exists, despite appearances.