By Amaya Gayle Gregory
Sedona, AZ — There’s an infinitesimal tipping point, a razor’s edge of sorts, where the individuated mind assumes control, or seems to, but of course, it doesn’t really. It’s that breath where the pause between thoughts, the spaciousness of beingness, is stealthily overwritten by identity.
It’s a spellbinding miracle, that nothing creates something out of nothing, or the lived felt sensual appearance of something. How is that possible? Mind blowing doesn’t even come close.
This sleight of hand is the reason that we think we are in control, that we are loathe to relinquish the idea that we have at the least a semblance of personal power. It’s why surrendering all belief in control is so damn hard, nearly impossible, perhaps truly impossible. If you’re paying attention, you can see that it’s a ruse but with a flip of the switch you’re right back in it, assuming control that whether or not it is actually yours, feels exactly like it is.
I think the best we can do is see it, play with it, and enjoy the ride.
Mind creates its masterpiece, and it truly is an unrivaled opus, the idea of I am, the artful appropriation of discrete selfhood. It’s wildly useful, incredibly necessary, the commonsense truth for most, and the villain in the seeker’s story. Yes indeed. It’s all of that and more.
I’ve been playing with the edge. Seems silly when you think of it, for the self-created individual to observe the point at which she becomes one.
It’s like a ghost in the works, an ephemeral fluctuation in the field, so quick and natural that it is nearly impossible to see. ‘See’ isn’t quite the right word. The shift isn’t seen. It’s more like … gosh, I am unable to find any word that truly works. One breath there is simply the pause, the next there’s the pause but the sense of a personal self is present. Nothing actually changes. There is no shift, no change, no nothing. There is simply variations in awareness.
Infinite Aliveness, the empty fullness, the pause, doesn’t go anywhere. The discrete self doesn’t either. They are one and the same, inherent oscillations of the field, flips of the evanescent coin.
Search all you want for the True Self. It can’t be found. There isn’t just one. It’s all true and it’s all false. This We Are is so much more than anyone can imagine, ever-changing flights of fancy, fields of possibility taking form and returning to all-embracing aliveness, permanence in the guise of impermanence. Catch a glimpse and it vanishes, leaving you wondering if you saw anything at all. It’s a heroic magic show. One moment you’re the bunny popping out of a hat, then poof! the illusion of you is gone.
Oh what fun!
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Image: Exploration of the mind psychedelic mystical art; thismakesthat.com
