again, the rain
the huge trees softly shrouded
music dripping, sloshing, trickling
mozzies incarnating for the bite of a lifetime
mold and mustiness and mushrooms:
the sublime suchness of the rainforest
If one has to have a name, why not ‘Destiny’? All the billions of apparently individual persons existing in the phenomenal world are but one power, one Life-energy moving through Life-patterns determined by destiny.
Some call destiny ‘God’s Will,’ others refer to ‘Cosmic Law’. Destiny is the simply the unfolding of circumstances according to genetics, structure, environment and experience, all powered by Life’s natural impulse to move, to grow, to unfold and expand.
Destiny is a picture too vast to be comprehended by this miniscule thought-bubble called me, yet it is none other than mySelf in motion.
the dream and its awareing
appear to be two
but can one exist
without the other?
try as I might
I can’t extricate myself from
either, and I ask myself:
how can I believe in two
when I fail to find even one?
I’m standing on the deck of a boat of some kind. The sea is benign, but there’s a heaving swell which is making it tricky to tie up at the wooden pier. I’m thinking about how to get my little suitcase onto the pier, trying to assess the rhythm of the swells. I toss the bag but miss the moment by a fraction and it catches on something on the pier then tumbles into the water. I’m not too worried, thinking it will float and be retrievable.
Then I’m standing in the water, which now appears to be a kind of estuary. The bag’s still floating, but a swift current has caught it and is carrying it further out. Dogs are swimming out to it. (Varanasi flashbacks!) It’s moving faster than I can run. Then it moves into open, choppy water, becoming submerged, and I know it’s gone.
I stand there, trying to recall what was in the bag: clothing, a pearl necklace given by a beloved, a jump-drive holding all my writing and images of my artwork, a notebook, another book, or two. I’m unfazed. There’s no sense of loss or anxiety.
The dream ends.
During the day the thought arose again and again: I had a death dream.
For surely dying must be just like that, like simply watching the little bag that holds your identity kit together – all the accessories and loved phenomena of a Life – float away on the outgoing tide of oceanic consciousness. The wild awareness that has been watching for that entire Life-time (and all others) simply continues to watch …
‘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.
The backyard Butcherbird was first up this morning. It was still quite dark when the trills of its morning overture sounded outside the sanctuary. Now he (or is it she?) is standing on the bird-bath. It’s the young one, so probably it has yet to learn that Willy Wagtail bathes first. There will be scolding, for sure.
Blessed rain has fallen over the holiday weekend: heaven for the locals with their parched gardens, hell for the holiday-makers in their sodden tents.
There’s not one thing in the world of phenomena that isn’t potentially either heaven or hell. Once things are split up into me and not-me, good and bad, right or wrong, the Game begins.
It reminds me of the ‘Snakes and Ladders’ dice game we played as kids. Back then there was the innocent thrill of whether chance would see one gobbled by a snake or saved by a ladder on the way to the finishing point. The adult version sees us clambering up the ladders chasing pleasure and being gobbled by disappointment when life doesn’t oblige; perhaps we should rename the board, and call it The Grace Game …
There were about a dozen ‘eyes-shut’ dreams last night. Every old-time friend and colleague, every loved place on the planet, seemed to turn up in amazing and absurd stories to press all the buttons that evoke all the emotions that would like to convince one that a Real Person is ‘having a dream!’
I ask myself: Is there any difference at all between these ‘eyes-shut’ dreams and the daytime ‘wide-open-eyes’ dream?
The only difference seems to be that after dreaming while asleep I awaken and say, “Whew. It was only a dream.”
And when dreaming while not sleeping I say, “Oooops. This is real.”
Until wideawakeness kicks in: “Wow! No dream, real or unreal, no dreamer, asleep or awake – only an endless unfolding and dissolving of appearances happening here…”
Life’s spinning Its suchness stories
around Its still and silent dimensionless point.
The days draw out. Two full-moons ago the sun’s ascent was blocked by the lillypilly hedge. Now it marches up from the ranks of the tall eucalypts, searing my face with its sharp rays and it’s not yet 06.30 on the clock.
the coming, the going
the appearing, disappearing
the in-breath, out-breath
the being, the not-being
only this inconceivable