Tamborine Mountain, in the great down-under called Oz, wraps its stony self in subtropical rainforest garb. Peering through spaces in the forest bordering this property I see cultivated areas of huge avocado and macadamia nut trees. There’s a large tree massed with flowers of scarlet. Beyond, there’s a stand of huge eucalypts, and it’s through their open arms that the sky shows gold, then pearl, as the great Shining climbs out of the Pacific and over the rainforest rim.
I notice that as this verdant vista unfolds in perception, it brings up a bouquet of similar delights archived in this particular memory: Normandie, Norway and New Zealand, the English Lake District, Uttarkashi in the Himalaya, and the Western Ghats in Kerala, India. Each vignette bears its unique geographical and chronological label, yet all places and all times exist nowhere but now–here in this vastness of mind.
after the fall
into calamitous clarity
one cannot call either the state of war
or the state of peace ‘real’
the only reality is the knowing
of war or peace
this unknowable knowingness
which hosts and populates
never takes sides
and has nothing to lose
or to gain
‘n’ – the ubiquitous dimension of ‘now-this-here’ – is not a thing; it could never be any kind of fixed object with independent existence. It’s easy to understand that nothing perceived can ever be a solid separate ‘thing’: in order for any ‘thing’ to be an object, it needs a subject. And we cannot provide any subject without it turning likewise into an object. So, what perceives ‘n’ and all its phenomenal contents?
When I stop and sit and shut up, the suchness of ‘n’ is simply apparent as ‘now-this-here’-i n g.
Try as I might, I cannot find a separate perceiver of this suchness. If it has no subject how can it be an object? It flies solo. Yet – it is my source and substance.
Wild wideawakeness isn’t a partial or incremental affair. (Perception is always partial, apperception is holistic.)
Awakening can be a bit like falling through the bottom of a long-drop into an ocean of crystal-clear brilliance.
At some point the long-drop and its contents are seen to be all you thought you were as a separate self – a person with characteristics, a history and a future.
And all of it – all of it – is seen as a wondrous manifestation of Awareness.
Awareness, fundamental and infinitely creative
is the ‘I’ that knows both the long-drop
and the oceanic clarity
[long-drop? This may be a term unique to the lands downunder, where it’s what we call an outdoor pit toilet.]
Many folk of skeptical disposition ask for proof that the Teachings of The Great Perfection are ‘true’ – in other words, proof that there is there something sacred, changeless, timeless and immediate. They ask for proof that Awareness is fundamental and inescapable. They ask for proof while being the very proof they seek.
Being a contrary creature by disposition, rather than requesting proof for That which is so obvious and in-your-face, I have a different question:
Does anyone claim to have scientific proof that anything has solid, permanent and ‘real’ existence – from quantum particles to cosmic galaxies – apart from the technologies of perception within the Awareness of sentient creatures? Speak out loud.
vast eyes are eyes wideawake
embodying the view
of pregnant emptiness
perception’s toolbox creates
the time and space in which
the world of ‘I’ can arise
vast eyes marry the ‘I’ of ‘me’
with the ‘I’ of everything
and so the view unfolds:
I – I
“…the still point of the turning world…” *
What lucid and luscious imagery this collection of small words evokes!
The “still point” is what I refer to as the unknowable dimension called ‘n’ by mathematicians, scientists and the [odd] mystic!
wild wideawakeness – to the n (nth)
is the still point of the turning world
And “the turning world…”? The world of appearances put together by mental technologies: perception, languaging; the world of me and mine, others and theirs; the world of time and space, in which it can all tickety-tock along.
After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.
~ The Four Quartets, Quartet 1 ‘Burnt Norton’ by T. S. Elliot