The ruts made by a million meanderings of the Memory Bus down Habit Avenue are deep.
Little wonder then that the bus finds it easy to continue to follow them along – even after a whiff of wild wideawakeness. It’s easy to drop back into default dualism when this happens, to be unsettled, and critical of a ‘clarity’ that’s become objectified and ‘owned.’
But what I’m noticing is that there’s an immediate and spontaneous awareness of what’s going on (mindless habitude), of where one is (in Rutsville), and an equally spontaneous elevation (yes it feels like that – like just floating up) from the rut. Oh!
Another dead petal drops off the lifebloom, floats serenely to the ground without one having to do a single thing, think a single thought, or choose one state over the other.
Life’s driving, whether one’s in the ruts or out. And Life’s wearing one’s very own name-tag. So what’s the big deal?