The ending of belief is the end of the story.
“I am an old man now, I have had many problems in my life, most of which never happened.”
~Mark Twain
There’s no truth in words; all words represent reality. They tell stories and this word-assemblage is one of them, written in the moment with words about words about the wordless. It’s a fools errand, but a delightful one. You may enjoy it too. 🙂
One of the wonders of resting in story-less, aware being is the arising in the space formerly preoccupied by “me and my problemmatic story” of this non-thing called ‘bliss’ or ‘mirth’ or pure delight. Indeed, living here gets – as Alice said in Wonderland, “curiouser and curiouser”.
There’s no personal center, no labeling, no labeler, no ‘who’ to determine who’s who, so to speak. There’s (usually 🙂 ) just a wide-open compassionate loving; a watcher-less watching of all that comes and goes, moves and shakes, here and now, with a curious delight full of wonder. And paradox.
There’s a living paradox in being nothing and everything; an empty fullness that’s beyond measurement and discription and not limited to any body/mind quality or feeling, though it includes the human sentient dynamic totally. There’s a deep sense of well-being and gratitude that gently elevates and inspires like the breeze lifting the curtains on the window this morning.
There’s a constant delighting – a slight, tickling curiousity and an amusing hereness that has no cause, no conditions; its like an ocean that’s never disturbed by the waves of experiences bourne by the winds in time and space that apparently come and go, ebb and flow.
In daily open aware living, this light sense of humor arises from innate joy and wonder. Perhaps you too have recognized that effulgent joy that seems to arise easily, immediately, with a whole seeing of a cat’s whiskers, an astonished hearing of a humming birds’ passing by the open window. There’s a profound knowing that indeed, life and the living of it now is good and sufficient; a mixed smelling of breakfast with flowers; a tentative finger-tip touching of tiny raised nodes on the F and J keys on the computer that enable a coherent beginning of typing something that remains unspoken until it appears; a hesitant exploring and delighting in this moment as expressed in so many symbolic words.
In sum, there’s a pausing to reflect, to appreciate this little act of finding and phrasing the freshness of this living moment as it is. In truth, in fact, what one is, – without a story – is only this constant aware loving presence. That’s the joy in living here.
And that’s the happy ending of the story, yes. 🙂
