[ living here beautifully, with all the noise, dept. ]

October 03, 2021 | | Comments 0
May be an image of text

It’s raining and the tree branches are elegantly waving and bobbing and bidding me to join them outside my window as I sit here in the old wingback chair simply watching the various comings and goings – the ‘experiencing’ – of life and living while writing this little missive to myself. It’s a vague urge that moves me again this morning. A tickle with a tug. It seems when this wondering – er, ‘writing’ arises like this, I never get to know in advance what will come up, where it will go, or how long it will last. Writing – like living – happens yes 🙂

This decades-long daily writing is like playing a musical instrument; it’s my kind of aimless musing I suppose. I recommend it like love, to heal and restore anyone who’s really tired – if not retired. And I find inspiration in exploring my Self, WRIT LARGE, with the recognition that, as J Krishnamurti said: “You are the world, and the world is you.” Indeed and in fact, in consciousness there’s just one seeing of one real world, but that ‘world’ is mostly not seen As It Is, from choiceless, non-personal yet loving, awareness. “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.” — Carl Jung


We conceptually conjure a private world with our personal, conditioned ‘minds’ eye’. A Mind that makes a good servant but a poor master, as sages say. It’s an interpreted world that worries us greatly, if not totally; a mind-spin that, like all media, distorts and seemingly presents the pre-judged, edited experience of a ‘reality’ that we selectively ‘see’ and believe. And the reactions which must always arise unless and until we directly, deeply see them on the inner screen called ‘my mind’ as they’re presenting their ‘world-view’ so to speak.
That common, living world – not filtered by personal desires and fears – is keen to be exactly as it is, not as it appears to our personal preferences and denials; it keeps variously moving and shaking like these dancing trees and showing itself to itself, so to speak, as totally, compassionately, loving. Writing to myself is the red thread of love that seems to run through much of this intrepid life I call ‘mine’. But that’s another story, yes 🙂

Living here is all about an easeful and aware watching – an affectionate noticing of the minds’ particular conditioned likes and dislikes – the fears and desires we’re born and bred to think and believe we are – or as some sage surely says somewhere: “In life, it all depends on which pot you’re planted in”. Planted in the sun and shade of our habitat, we see that world; we ‘experience’ that world – our very own imaginary, conceptually described, believed and labelled “reality”. Indeed, there’s perhaps two realities: the constantly changing personal and the changeless not-personal. It’s like some Zen master who, when asked “Is the world real?” picked up her heavy stick and lightly thumped the questioner on his shoulder: “it’s real enough, yes” 🙂

Reality is not what we think it is, not what the mind says it is, not what we want and fear it is. Reality is. Nothing can be said about it. Words glance off the sheer solidity of reality, fail to penetrate and only vaguely point to the non-persona, the actual and factual, the real. It’s wonderful because unknown, beautiful because unseen.

Still, there’s a certain knowing of this ‘not-knowing’, and a touch of delight; there’s a freedom to let suffering aka. ‘resistance’, come and go as it will. In fine, there’s a constant letting-go of experience when attention is resting in itself, in its peaceful and affectionate self nature…whatever that is, it’s all beautiful, yes 🙂

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