For a long time I let this slow movement towards the unknown, this highest form of knowledge, be fulfilled in me: the dream, the worship of silence. It is never in vain that we give way to this elementary beauty which seizes the soul in the spiral of a star or anything in the world: such certainty soothes the hours when I do not write, as those when I write.
It illuminates the night and its angelic sister, solitude. Silence is the highest form of thought and it is by developing in us this silent attention mute to the day, that we will find our place in the absolute that surrounds us. It is ours when all is lacking and all is far from being _ to give our life the patience of a work of art, the flexibility of reeds that the hand of the wind wrinkles, In homage to winter. A little silence is enough. A little of this immaterial food that the mother dispensed by reading a story that dug the night and burned it to infinity...
A field, transparent expanse no inside, no outside no boundary through all things underneath all things before all things from which all things arise - just movement rising and falling
no agitation no naming no reference - one thing to another nothing is object and no attributes thus nothing strikes - one thing against the other no agitation
It is peace, utter peace 'the peace that passeth understanding' the words 'peace' and 'calm' are limp slivers of linguistic conceit they cannot transmit this knowing
HOME of pure freedom all-embracing no me - no past, no identity - completely unbound immersed merged dissolved no-longer only awareness deep unfathomable peace
just the gift that always is Reality's Self
emerging through the door of this transcendent HOME one last kiss and wave off: "this is The Stillness. people live in this Stillness" a respectful, gentle invitation ... with a dash of humour, like ... 'you might like to give this a try ... there's nothing stopping you' (nudge, nudge)
a white liquid light poured through the head into the crevices of the brain down into the body filling every vibrating molecule with exquisite sweetness scintillating divine light nectar of which I had never known before nourishing this material form. A loving embrace - divine LIGHT pouring itself into 'me' Every part of this body responded with delight and fell asleep.
How long did we wait for our lives to begin? Believing that everything had to be 'just right', so we could finally relax
When you least expect it, when all hope is gone, when you realize that tale will never get pinned on the donkey, when you realize that all the ladders in the world will never reach the moon, when you're tired of trying to catch the wind, kiss your reflection in the moonlit pond, that it was simply a misconception that you were in charge of the stage door, and had to turn the crank on the merry-go- round,
you find infinite permutations of a butterfly kiss, and a beautiful intimacy of life slipping through your fingers as you slip through the lines, losing yourself and finding yourself awash in iridescent awe.
and in the end there is no doubt nor place for it to arise..........
all the secret corners of your being have been undone
there is nothing left to hide nor anywhere to hide it
nor anyone to hide...
there is nothing in the bottom of the cup
not even emptiness
or nothingness
or thinglessness
the suck as the tide goes out
water shimmering in the afternoon sun as it percolates into the sands of this shoreless sea
just an empty sublime vastness
suspended as awe
in the dance of love
What is going on is magnificently wondrously unknowable
It has no qualities or characteristics whatsoever
It is shared learned words which create a conceptual mentally fabricated world of separate things and events and time...
And this imaginary “known” world is not separate from the unknown because the ideas of “known” and “unknown” are also made up.
I could say that what is going on is fluid and ungraspable but actually it is neither moving nor nonmoving. As it has no dimension and it is not dimension less.
Has no time nor non time...
It has no things nor non-things...
It is not one big thing like wholeness or emptiness...
It has no space nor emptiness...
And it is not even an it.
This is it
And not even that....
When the story is no longer believed, that is also the story...
And the story takes on a somewhat surreal feeling... yet simultaneously real-er than real more vibrant more alive....
it’s as if the most delicious dream of unknowing has subsumed the dream of knowing...