everything one is aware of
– every one of those “ten thousand things” –
gets one’s attention
everything except Awareness ITself
isn’t that incredible?
What if all those ups and downs in The Grace Game (aka Snakes and Ladders) were the play of Awareness awareing ITself? What if they were immaculately and uniquely designed moves solely intended to wake the wee-me from its dream of being an independent player? What if there was no competition involved and the finishing point was actually the beginning of a new Game, one where the player now realizes that there’s only One Player and that the board, the dice (aka ‘chance’), the player and all those experiences – the good the bad and the ugly – are IT?
The weird thing about rapture is that it can’t be called an experience; it’s the absence of an experiencer. It can’t be recalled, although in retrospect there’s a sense that Awareness has been simply awareing Itself. It has to be the ultimate relaxation. Perhaps it’s the natural state of Being-ness.
Joseph Campbell spoke about finding the still point within where commitment falls away. But I think it’s impossible to find the still point. I found that when the seeker of the still point gives up the search
IT finds you
The still point is like a magnet: IT draws you to ITself. And once that magnetic beam has you in its pull, all that you thought you were disappears. Like into a wormhole. Like into another version of the universe.
This sweetly sun-drenched morn, not yet invaded by clamor of traffic and neighbors, is an artwork of breathtaking beauty.
Shadows, patterns, textures, tones and movement mingle – all woven together on the loom of color.
Color is light.
Look carefully at the world:
do you see anything but color?
Nothing but color.
Nothing but light.
What is looking? What sees?
Nothing but looking.
Nothing but seeing.
Nothing but awareing.
Self-shining radiance is the weaver,
working at the loom of color vibration,
creating a world in which to see
The door theme continues; scribbler scribbles.
For some folk – read yours truly – Wideawakeness seems to go with ruthless questioning of non-negotiable assumptions – beliefs and opinions we often don’t even know are lurking below the limn of consciousness. We use words and scarcely give a thought to the fact that they are nothing but signifiers.
What if a “door” turned out to be not-a-door at all, but a collection of contributing qualities and attributes that could be traced all the way back to what we call the Big Bang? What if a “path” turned out to be similar? And the “gate” of the Zenner’s koan as well? And what if you looked deeply enough at the “me” and failed to find anything that could be claimed to be “self-existent”?
And what if you went even further and found that the appearance of what any of these signifiers signified could not be claimed to exist apart from the Awareness that perceives them? And what if you then turned your inquiry to that Awareness (which cannot be objectified, but only referenced in a ‘thought experiment’) and realized that even IT could never exist without the display it is Awareing? And what if you realized you couldn’t extricate your sense of self from that movement of Aware-ing-ness?
Wouldn’t that send a tsunami over your little island of separate ‘me-ness’?
The waves engulf, destroy, cleanse and retreat. If there’s been no withdrawal – if ripeness has ripened – a new vista opens up. The Lamas call it The Great View.
folded up on my zafu
venus rising, a brilliance
above the coral horizon
where soon the first
radiance of a new day
legions of bats, black
against indigo, are
winging their silent way
back to their favorite
but it’s still dark enough
for my candle to be
queen of the shadows
and she whispers to me:
“If the light of your awareing
wasn’t brighter than my own,
how could you see me?
I am but a shadow-play
of the unviewable, unlit
Light that you are!
Think on this. And when the
sun climbs over the eastern rim
and reaches into this tiny patch
of sacred space, undressing
think on this again.”
On the Blackall Range the sun shakes itself off and emerges from the gleaming Pacific earlier than on the coast. We sit sipping our steaming green tea, awareing the birth of the new day.
Gradually the little motel room floods with golden light called up by the bird-lords of the mountain, who take off for breakfast elsewhere once their work is accomplished. Other fellow-travelers stir: a dog barks at a jogger, a gecko jumps at a huntsman spider, a TV begins to quack in the next unit . . .
The apparent shift to another place, another space, is just that – an appearance. Phenomena may change, will change, are ceaselessly changing . . .
But this Light of awareing doesn’t rise or set, and knows no time or space. Wherever we go IT remains unchanged, yet IT births all that appears to change. Wherever we place our cushions for a morning sit, there IT is. And when we get up again? There IT is. Beloved!
and I asked:
if this unlit Light cannot be seen by any kind of viewing apparatus –
since that would be like an eye trying to see its own iris
what ‘saw’ that Light flowing in front of closed eyelids?
what ‘heard’ those archaic words echoing within the skull?
and I was reminded:
always and ever
there is only
the pure self-shining Self