Saturday, December 6, 2008

Magnificent, Magnificent, Magnificent Life.

It has been raining for the better part of two weeks. Heavy rain, wind...occurrences, those who know, call tropical depressions. I've heard many areas, of several countries, are experiencing terrible flooding and still suffering from no electricity, services, or access to care. It is quiet here now. The rain has stopped. There is a slight, cool breeze, which gently blows low clouds across the sky, obscuring the crescent moon for moments at a time. Some moments are long, some quite short. The sound of pounding rain on the tin roofing has been replaced with a myriad of insects calling to one another and the gentle roar of a nearby river in an otherwise silent night.

Standing still amongst the sounds, scents, and movement around me one realizes how little thought seems to interfere. It's as if there is peace with all my relations. There's simply nothing to stir the pot, nothing to churn the ever-stilling water of my being. Only an upwelling of immeasurable joy, gentle waves of it arising from some still, unknown depth. It is neither in the body or outside of it...my guess is there's no body at all, only these gentle waves of joy and utter stillness.

It would seem there cannot be one and the other. When 'thought' is activated, the other is not. The other recedes and is unseen, unheard, unfelt, unknown, like a rose in an overgrown corner of a forgotten garden. 'Thought' concerns itself with only itself, and that of it's own making. In this it is a phantom movement, it's relationship built of, and upon, sheer imagination, illusion, for it simply cannot help but create a sense of separation where there is none. It's survival, continuity, future, reality, and very life utterly depends upon this delusional sense of 'being separate from...' Through this ability to separate, fragment itself, it creates what it refers to as an 'individual.' And it is this 'individual' which suffers through life, and in it's utter despair, wreaks havoc on the life which it experiences itself as 'separated from.'

Clearly what thought refers to as an 'individual' is not so. The very word 'individual' means undivided, whole, independent and the 'individual' thought knows is nothing of the sort. Being the creation of thought, itself a movement of relational fragments, the 'individual' cannot be otherwise. Like a wooden doll will never be other than a wooden doll. Individuality is when thought, and all it has put together, is not. Individuality knows no separation. Individuality is the movement of life itself, indivisibly so...whole. Sitting now inside my home, writing, I can still hear the sounds of insects calling out, singing, relating, being. I am that being.