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February 11, 2007


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That's it! Just scoot down the thinking rope and let go. What is the point of meditation, spiritual practice. Who is doing that to/for whom? I looked for my true self for years and found no trace of anything. You see...who is looking for what? I was chasing my tail, wrestling with thin air. That which I was looking for is this which was looking and I never found myself. There was nothing to be found. The seeker was the sought and nothing of the kind existed as an object. That was the end of the search. There was nothing further to look for. That is the final, complete answer. You say you don't understand? Understanding is the result of a process that uses the mind objectively. But true mind is formless, without attributes, impersonal, subjective. That is all that you are, all that anything is, and no thing itself. You see, you are neither that nor this. One just is and doesn't know it. Everything just is and doesn't know it. Such is what one finds when one wakes up. Now go have a cup of tea.

Brain, I'm not as disciplined as you. I often find myself down that well, immersed in that endlessness and don't really know how I got there - I think I somehow jump rather than ease myself down. And we both know that it's a genetic trick or the grace bestowed on a fool that permits me down into those depths, and I certainly cannot control the process the way you do. I can control my breathing. I can pray. I can even visualize brilliant sunlight blocking everything but warmth and goldenness but... the access I enjoy and the duration of the swim I enjoy in those waters? Well, that's a decision the great Lifeguard in the Sky makes.

I read this post last night and asked to be granted a deeper insight while I slept. (Sometimes this works for me, sometimes not.) I woke abruptly in this nightmare:

I'm soaked to the skin, trudging down a muddy road, the sidewalks slicked with ice so thick they are impassable. Trying to find shelter -- behind me an immense pool of water (a saltwater bay? a a bloated lake or river?) is slowly rising and pushing me to slog faster and faster to try to escape to higher ground. But the road ahead is sloped down! and I am worried that I will surely drown when the water crests the incline and turns into a wall that sweeps me off my feet. The rain is pelting me and I pray for some miracle and lo! it comes: the rain turns to snow --- white, quiet, almost soundless -- and the walking is easier and I'm happy, the snow crusts my soaked sweater. I start to feel warmer until I notice that my feet are still freezing wet - I've lost a shoe to the snowdrifts but press on, my sock caked with ice. The mud is gone and yes, the walking is easier because I'm in the grass. I've been happily wandering away from the road - lost my bearings and both my shoes now, sure I am going to die, lost in some field just beyond the earshot of any passerby.

I attributed the dream to my subconscious mind adapting my physiological response to the frigid cold that etched the edges of my storm windows in the bedroom and seeped into the house somehow. Now I'm not so sure.

Well, I have a sink full of dishes to do.

Mirror Poem 22

Ox and elk in pine orchard
Sing fire along the mountain:

Beautiful lights,
One and another clinging
To preen forever,

Agreement’s a thief.
A garden or bundle of boughs
Is luckier indistinct.


Ah, well...

Bin Po goes to the abbott after meditation and says, "With the passing of winter, does the gourd live on in the seed? Or does summer bring the seed to life in the gourd?"

The abbott replied, "I can not walk without my staff."

Bin Po thought, "So the seed and the gourd are the same!" He said to the abbott, "Thank you, master!"

The abbott struck Bin Po on the shoulder with his staff, and shouted, "See, I am walking on you!"

The way of thinking is not thinking. Feature-length meditation is not meditation. And fire clings to everything forever... until it does not.

Not that!

Edward, I must be impossibly dense because I have no idea what you are saying. I have an idea of what I would like what you said to mean (the poem too) but other than the clinging fire I am hopelessly lost...

Tuscon Bob,





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