Thursday, July 15, 2010

Being filled with life

There is so much in life, if I am present to it, that it seems quite incredible.

The level of detail, of interaction, the breath that exists between each moment--the sheer number of different impressions, and the extraordinary nature of them: there is so much of all of it that I shut it out.

I'm not capable of taking it in at the level in which it actually exists.

By that I mean that what I call "consciousness" (as I ordinarily experience it) is a process of devaluation, of a turning away from what is.

Life itself-- the Dharma, the Truth-- is infinite, and complete, and unfathomable. The process of mind, as I usually experience it, is actually a destructive process, in that it strips as much as possible of what life is away from itself, so that what is registered-- what enters-- is adapted to fit within the shallow spaces I have prepared for it. They are all I have available. I am perpetually trying to stuff all of heaven into a little box.

It's odd to me that we call awareness as we experience it "creative," because at the ordinary, one-centered level, mind is often anything but.

When the whole is encountered--when the whole comes in-- it falls into deep places. Places that I am usually unaware of, that I can taste on the edge of myself if I make an effort--taste on the edge of myself, but no more. There is a hint of perfume; the faint scent of musk, a tickling of senses I cannot sense, a glimmering of light I cannot see.

I stand perpetually on the edge of this possibility, calling for it, searching in some detail within for the connection with it,. but it bides its own time and seeks its own level. Not my level: no, it can't seek that level, and has no need to seek, or to speak to, or to Be, within this level. The possibility exists unto itself and has its own law... a law I cannot know or touch.

I call to it in the sheer hope that it will hear me; it bides its own time and seeks me only when it will, not when I will it.

So much of life is a process of waiting, of searching, of calling. It reminds me strongly of the Gurdjieff/De Hartmann pieces where, as one listens, one perhaps senses the existence of a vast desert landscape.

Somehow, that place is... and always was... eternally contained within the music, as if the sound itself carries the memory of a condition which is always present, but which one has forgotten.

Suddenly, one finds oneself within that landscape, in the middle of an impossibly fantastic country, majestic mountains brooding in the distance: alone, sensing quite clearly that out there, a sacred presence lies in hiding.

It influences everything-- the very air is permeated with the existence of a sublime perfection which remains hidden somewhere behind the horizon.

And slowly, in a part that one did not know one had, one understands that one is on a lifelong journey towards that perfection, and yet one knows... in the deepest, innermost part of one's most secret heart, one knows...

perhaps one may never reach it.

The Germans have a word for it, Sehnsucht: it means yearning or longing, and yet it means much more, because it is a portmanteau word combining Sehen (to see) and Suchen (to seek).

I seek to see.

I have a wish to see that which cannot be seen. I am unable to drink deeply enough...

and yet such is my desire.

This wish to see... it is a living thing that can be born in a man, dwell in his nerves, his tendons, the marrow of his bones.

And it is from those places that it can emerge to form a new relationship with the impressions of this mystery called life.

May the living Light of Christ discover us.

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