What I notice when amnesia sneaks in and I begin again to claim doer-ship and control over tomorrow, doggedly pushing on, blindly following the ruts of conditioning and posing as supreme controller, is this:
Something happens to bring me back,
and, probably because I’m a gritty goer,
it happens to my body.
(Arm gets rms: can’t scribble or type,
back goes out: can’t stand at easel,
knee explodes: can’t move.)
Something makes me stop, sit, shut-up
and free-fall yet again
into the what-is of this life I call mine.
That ‘something’ is what I know as Grace.
It’s usually fierce. Definitely not fluffy.
I’ve learned to love it as my most treasured Beloved,
for it returns me to ITself.
It’s part of the great Game to imagine that one can do or think anything to help – or hinder – any thing, person, or state – including the appearance we label a body and call ‘me’.
We race around scoring a goal here, losing one there, thinking we know the codes and strategies, (good intentions, valid expectations, responsible control, well trained intellects) when along comes Grace with a dropkick out of the blue.
Grace’s hallmarks are the utterly unexpected and uninvited. Grace drops in and plays for either team (helpers or hinderers) without preference. Grace is the dynamic expression of the big game sponsor: IT.
IT watches from the grandstand
loves both teams equally
cheers all the action
and is unmoved, unaffected
whatever the result
within this dream (which has no without)
every action performed seems to spring from the sense of personhood –
a me/doer, a someone, who chooses and controls
waking up in the dream means realizing
that the inexorable movement of Life has been the doer all along,
and that the dreamer just snatched all the credit – or the blame –
in an attempt to feel real
there’s immense release in this:
no one to beat up
no one to blame
no one to be proud
no one to be humble
no one to be guilty
sweet release: are you ready for it?
insistence by the phantom poser we insist is real and solid and in control
that the body/mind/being should conform to its ideas and ideals
is poison; it’s probably the cause of most illness and disease
to say nothing of violence and brutality
when the tyrant takes off, deposed by a direct and ruthless look
body can reclaim its voice
at first, in little whispers, then louder
flowering with clarity, strength and wisdom
body’s language is the language of Life
uttered by Life, understood by Life
but unfathomable to the intellect