Tuesday, January 21, 2014

An unerring life

Mogao, Cave 249. Buddha with attendants (not visible) 
Circa 535-557
From the Zhejiang Museum exhibits, Hangzhou, China

Notes to myself from China.

Perhaps what I need to see most clearly is that I don't see.

If I could or did see, things in me would be quite different. There's a lack; and that lack is a lack of any real seeing. I spend the majority of my day (99.9% of it) believing absolutely in my own direction and agency. 

In the midst of this there's an imaginary construction I've erected that assigns me an active role where there is "work" and perhaps even maintains that I can see how I am. The belief that I can see my "resistance" (which actually consists of a lack of connection to the organism), if there is one, is a part of that construction.

My organic sensation is emphatically NOT a part of that construction, because it arises in a different center which is categorically unable to participate in all of that nonsense. It simply isn't built that way; and if it weren't blocked in me, I would already know that.

The reason my real work needs to turn inwards towards this force of sensation is that it is, in the very largest sense of the word, unable to lie.

Those who have heard such things may underestimate how absolutely important that is, because one may not have a living sensation, and in fact may not even know quite what that means. One just uses one's construction to believe one does... that one understands something about this. This marks the difference between an invoked sensation and a voluntary sensation.

In theory, an investment in sensation, even a quite ordinary one, gradually creates a new center of gravity which, if it acquires enough material, can draw me away from my imagination of inner work long enough for me to actually see something more real. At that moment the idea of a living sensation is no longer a part of the construct I call "my" work... that's the theory, anyway. How it actually works in practice is a mystery.

If a voluntary sensation appears, however, I know something real which stands apart from the fantasies I use as a substitute for real effort. 

When I remember this, it sinks into the bones and creates, eventually, an objective force for inner work with its own unerring life. This force of sensation becomes permanent; again, a mystery.

But sensation isn't enough.


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