Pre-Existing Condition (ΑΩ)

4DeD4fvSeekers seeking peace. The very act of looking for it is to step away from it, like a paper doll cut out of the paper, that then tries to find itself, and its source.

Peace doesn’t go anywhere. It doesn’t come and it doesn’t leave.

It is the unmoving eye at the center of the experiential storm.

Peace is neither a place to get to, or a status barometer.

It is not yours; nor is it mine. It isn’t personal. It cannot be owned, kept, found, or lost. It’s what is here when there’s no “you-ing” or “me-ing,” (i.e., hoping, looking, waiting for it).

It cannot possibly be had one minute, and then lost the next. Because it is prior to time; prior to the idea of looking for it; prior to hoping and waiting; prior to everything.

Peace is the pre-existing condition. It is just here, now. It is the absence of any condition.

Peace is the water, the ocean in which you swim. And you are not the fish.

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Lose Something Every Day

 

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My white dog just escaped through the fence!

A man you detest has become president,

Or is no longer president.

An excuse, from either lane, you see.

Detestation is dodgy,

like the white dog, slipping through the fence.

Where do all my ideas go?

I see that to lose is either disaster, or impossible.

Or, call it artful.

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

Reuniting the Apparent Mind/Body Split

Split, by Rodrigo-Vega

There is much talk of the importance of the body and it’s contractions, feelings, in this spiritual marketplace. Though the dialogues we are engaged in are called “Thinking Dialogues,” they in no way exclude the body. The title of the book that is, in part, the inspiration for these dialogues, is Thought As A System, by David Bohm. And upon investigation, whether we are looking into thoughts, sensations, images, or sense perceptions, it is just that—a system, not of divided parts, but the undivided experience prior to the idea of parts. Continue reading

Water Flows Downhill ~ All is Carried, Carved Away

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Landscape ~ Melissa Farlow

It seems as simple as seemingly two concurrent and complementary processes: Unselfing and Recollecting Wholeness. Unselfing has to do with becoming aware of the mental mechanics that only appear to create a separate self,

and recollecting wholeness is becoming aware of what is, in the absence of that mechanism.

Thereby, unselfing facilitates and obviates the recollecting of wholeness; abiding as that wholeness, facilitates that unselfing, as an effortless and natural occurrence.

There’s no place for an objective state called enlightenment in that description. It’s irrelevant in the organic unfoldment of what is, or what isn’t.

Something falls away; something is thus rediscovered.

Erosion; emanation.

What remains after wind, water, and fire work their magic?

“The Great Way is not difficult,

for those who have no preferences.”

~ Hsin Hsin Ming, by Seng T’san

Seen; Unseen. Summer; Winter

Winter Spring Summer and Fall, by Gray Artus

Winter Spring Summer and Fall, by Gray Artus

Summer is the substance of things hoped for; winter, the evidence of things not seen.

So that what is seen in summer is not made out of things which are visible, but out of what is invisible in winter.

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This morning, seeing the spider webs glistening, the ants everywhere, busy–the flowers still blooming, the dog sleeping, breathing, chest rising and falling.

Last night, the spider  crawling on my arm. It was felt before it was seen.

I am in the web. Not caught, but weaving.

Nothing to Fix. Just Look!

What is paid attention is what is noticed. “Notice” is derived from gnosis. What is noticed is what is known. What is known is what is, is what you are. To know is to be, I am. Why attend to “the problem,” when the whole world shows its perfection? We have only to pay attention, to notice.

Our Eternal Slumber Party; Promises Made

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If only there were something I could tell you,
That you don’t already know.

Like in the night we lie awake in a tent in the backyard,
Flashlights towards our faces.

We pretend to be scared, but giggle instead,
While parents sleep, in a room.

We are out there with the crickets and stars,
Sounds and brights fill up the space.

We are children in a wild short night of summer,
Tentatively committed to losing…this.

That’s what we tell each other in that airy encampment,
Pinky-swear we will never forget.

We imagine boys, girls, cars, the Beatles, and houses with sticky children,
And scrunch up our faces, like grandmas look.

Till we fall asleep, somehow, between the hoots of an owl,
And dream of a time before Adam’s silly rib.

Someone, maybe a kind but unruly God, or the Owl Himself,
Puts the little rib back where it belongs.

Though we sleep, we never really lose ourselves this night in Gemini,
My twin. We have a deal! To remember.

You are always a terrible liar, but a great pretender,
And promises we keep, with imaginary friends.

Remind me of this starry night where we make it all up,
Never-ending, as per our agreement.

Together, we are back in that night of freedom and audacious crickets,
Where we imagine, to make a world out there.

You tell me; did we ever? Were we ever?