Heave. Ho!

Ever since my Dad first took me to an Australian Rules Football match when I was about 10, I have had a fascination with the game – a fascination that has been known to border on obsession at times. There have also been a number of times – generally more recently – when I have attempted to shake this fascination. But, like coffee’s rich aroma, the season starts again and sucks me back in every time. What is it I love about this game? It can be spectacular, rough, fast, intense, and for anyone – like myself – who supports the Fremantle Dockers, incredibly frustrating. This is a team that has made the finals once (and lost their only game) since their inception back in 1995. Half the competition makes the finals. It is a team of incredible talent and a propensity for choking. They have a reputation amongst their supporters for their ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and they did it to us again last night in a situation that could only happen to the Dockers. After leading convincingly for the entire game and kicking with the wind in the last quarter, they gave away almost all of their lead. This got the crowd roaring so loud that the umpires didn’t hear the final siren ring and kept the game going just long enough after it should have stopped to allow the opposition to kick a point and draw the game. A debacle.

I was so confident that Freo would win that I put $15 on them to do so. In that space of time between the siren blowing and the point being kicked, a $30 win turned into a $15 loss. I would like to send the umpires a bill, but it was Fremantle who made the situation possible, coughing the game up when it was beyond reasonable doubt.

Why do I continue to support this team that frustrates me at every available opportunity? Maybe I see a lot of myself in them. I too can be frustrating, possessing much more potential than results would indicate; I too can get close to a target and then get sidetracked; I too identify as coming from Fremantle, a town where mediocrity is celebrated. And I can be unpredictable, innovative, enthusiastic, brilliant and endearing, and I guess that’s what keeps me fascinated by Freo. They may never reach great heights, but it’s sweet to watch them try.

Simple directions

So it appears the name of this blog has changed. J’s World had some limitations, primarily: 1) it kept me in and of this (or, at the very least, a) world; and 2) it made my world separate from yours. This is J’s world, that is yours and, well, that’s basically it. A great way to remain in the illusion of separation.

So it came to me to change it. And naturally, the idea to change it came before the rationale. And as all good things that come to me seem to do, it came in the form of a simple direction: “change your blog’s name to Simple Directions.” Okay. Who am I to argue?

The idea to do the blog in the first place was a simple direction; so was coming to Floyd; so was dancing in the place where I met E (the only band I took the time to stop and take in at FloydFest, having spent most of the time volunteering). All my travels – from the time I finished the School for The Work, through California to Mexico and back to the States again – were guided by simple directions. Even being with E was a simple direction: a week before I met her, the voice told me, “It’s time to get married,” and at FloydFest it advised me, “She’s here, and she will come to you.” And she did, though that may not precisely be her version of events.

Simple directions are my guide. They got me this far, and it’s probable they will take me further. Let’s see.

No mistake

God's answer is some form of peace. All pain is healed; all misery replaced with joy. All prison doors are opened. And all sin is understood as merely a mistake. (ACIM Lesson 359) Guiltless. We all make mistakes – that is why we’re here: to make mistakes. To see them rectified, to learn from them. Merely mistakes. It is only when I see the mistake as sin that I suffer. When I see the mistake as natural – my inheritance – it becomes no more than a learning opportunity.

And the concept of sin itself is merely a mistake. Those who choose to believe in it are not wrong, but merely mistaken. The miracle is correction, so love and forgiveness – compassion – is the answer to any perceived sin. It is not my job to tell someone they are wrong – not even to judge them so – it is only my job to let miracles move through me, to give them a space to flow. My job is to get out of the way.

For God’s answer is some form of peace. Listening for it, heeding it, is the path of peace.

The heavy brow of boiling point

Today my brow is heavy and I have no idea what is holding it down. I find myself easily frustrated and sincere. I notice I am closed to love. No big deal, this is where I appear to be at for the moment. Let’s just experience this and see where it takes me. For I notice that when I judge it, it only escalates. When I tell myself this is not appropriate, the intensity increases to boiling point. I don’t enjoy boiling point, so why would I want to foster it? And when I sit here without judgement, just taking it in, the ‘problem’ dissolves. There is nothing left but a lonely furrowed brow, wondering why it no longer has company. When I don’t associate thoughts with my sensations, they necessarily lose their meaning. And I know this is basic stuff, but I can be so forgetful.

So what I have now is this: wonderment that I thought I was in a bad mood. The bad mood derived entirely from the thought that I was in one!

Ah, the world has become peaceful again. Hello world, it is good to be back!

Rampant spring

Rain gently patters on the roof overhead as the mist hovers magically through the valley like a fairyland. I wonder if mist and mystical are derived from the same root? This is cosy weather, sleep-in weather, snuggle weather. It is moist and sensual, alive, abundant. This is grow time! Around me everything flourishes. I am surrounded by a sea of colour changing daily. This morning I noticed the pine nuts are budding. I have never experienced such a rampant spring, a time of such flux of flora. In Australia, plants have a whole year – mostly – to live out their cycles above ground. Here it’s more like half a year, so everything moves at double speed. Buds and flowers come and go so fast, like a movie. New growth sprouts and blooms in the time it takes to notice it. Spring is so alive here!

A canopy of greens and reds now covers the landscape where but a few months previous all was bare limbs and bleak. And still there remains so much more to be seen. A tree to my right has just begun budding, its limbs exposed still – lean arms reaching out in lifelong devotion to the sun and rain. The light greens, the reds of new growth are still to be replaced by more mature hues. There is nothing here that remains a constant – even the red barn roof today appears brown-black. Change is the only constant in this world we would call ours.

Blindsight

I have been given an exercise to visualise a friend as best I can, to converse with them, make them smile, tell them a tale of adventure. What a great way to see my friend in the best light possible! Projection is so much easier to manage when my eyes are closed.

Truth

Truth answers every call we make to God, responding first with miracles, and then returning unto us to be itself. (ACIM Lesson 357) Truth is not what I once thought it was. Truth is a blanket that covers this entire existence, wrapping it up snugly, warmly; giving it comfort, surrounding it with its eternal peace. Truth is this: it is. Truth does not judge and truth does not fear, it simply is. Truth’s isness is what makes it so whole, complete, what makes it so unalterable and eternal. Truth is all. It never left, for there is nowhere for it to go. Truth is forever still. Truth is peace. Truth is the word of God. Whatever can be perceived by anyone to be a lie, a misinterpretation, open to interpretation, that could still be truth, but if it is not constant then it simply can’t be. If there is irony in it, there is probably truth too. Truth is universal.

And I could be wrong! How would I know, after all?

The path of peace

It came to me last night that peace is not an end but a means. Peace is the vessel for the simple directions. Here I’ve been seeking peace like it’s the goal when it’s merely a symptom. Peace is but a necessary step on the path to wakefulness. Peace is just tapping into the sensation of eternity; it is not eternity of itself. To suggest peace is the goal is like saying that being pricked by a pin is becoming the pin, or feeling the wind against my face is being the wind. Peace is merely an experience that opens me to a brand new vista. Entering that vista, becoming a part of it, that is the aim of the exercise.

So being at peace is no big deal. It’s a great experience – highly recommended – but in and of itself it’s meaningless. In fact, it’s meaninglessness that takes me there: when my thoughts lose the meaning I’ve assigned them, peace is the inevitable consequence.

I love this discovery! It takes all the pressure off. For now I no longer seek peace as a goal; now peace has become my path to a goal. Like they say: there is no way to peace, peace is the way.

Nothing serious

What am I writing about? Why am I bothering? L cuddles up beside me and life is wonderful and here I sit trying to take it seriously. Seriousness is so absurd. In this house the girls have decided that 'seriously' is a dirty word. There is nothing serious. It never happened.

Excavation

The excavator is digging his way to our front door today. The front door is on the second floor, and until today it opened into a void between the house and the hill. Today the house will join the hill and become that much more a part of the earth it came from. I love this house! It is so close to the one I would have built for myself: so natural, so grounded. I always imagined living in a house built into a hillside; the only difference here being that the hillside is today being built into the house. And, of course, the house is built of the hillside.

I too have been doing a lot of digging lately. I have been digging out the floor - wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of thick red earth I have removed from within the house’s walls. Someday the floor will be flat and four inches lower than it originally was. And then we can fill it with eight inches of sand and gravel and earthen floor, with some radiant heat piping thrown in for good measure.

And last week we prepared and planted the season’s first veggie bed with a random collection of seeds I was given in Sonoma 16 months ago.

It seems to be a time for digging: digging floors, digging gardens, and digging deep within in search of treasure. Digging deep, roots sinking through the soil for nourishment and stability. Mining for the gems of truth.

Life is excavation.

Attention to softness

Yesterday I was self-absorbed and my world fell apart, crushed me. Today, the remnants of yesterday linger soberly while I take in all I learnt from the experience: being self-absorbed is failing to pay attention, and lack of attention leads to error; softness is forgiving, hardness is a shell – a protective coating that separates me from my environment. Two valuable lessons: attention and softness. Attention – or awareness – is what takes me home every time, it is being here for this – not lost in a world of my mind’s making. Softness is the vehicle for flow; softness lets this flow through me, me flow through this, and allows it all to join together as one gentle movement. Softness is receptivity. And receptivity and awareness are mutually dependent upon one another.

So what looked like two lessons was only one. Duality has no place here.

Crushed

I am being crushed, to sand like the face of a cliff on the ocean. Billions of bits of sand floating, drifting apart where once a solid rock stood. There is little left, and the press just got tighter. There will be less left soon. Crush me 'til all that remains is sand. Spread me with the currents and the waves; mould me into the shapes you require; blow me into glass, transform me. A rock is too hard, too unforgiving. Turn me to sand.

A tiny, mad idea

There is no end to eternity, to the great perfection. And nothing is keeping me from it but a thought - a tiny, mad idea. And in this moment that idea is as small as it’s ever been, shrinking like plastic in an oven. One tiny, mad idea disrupted my peace in eternity, but only for an instant.

I wonder whether I’ll even remember hell when eternity is all? Will it be a lesson, a memory, or a blink of an eye? Will I be able to conceive separation at all, or will the tiny, mad idea recur again and again and again? Will it matter? Could it ever have mattered?

It came to me once that nothing does matter, and the universe opened up like a bubble popped. It appeared before me as an answer to a crazy question, and nothing that appeared to happen was excluded from the answer. The answer being: what a crazy question! The question I had heard before: what would happen if I was separate from eternity? But the answer was a revelation of the greatest hilarity. It is impossible to do wrong when in the middle of an answer like, ‘what a crazy question!’ The crazier the better really, for there’s integrity in craziness: it is closer to the truth than what the world would call sanity. The world does not even acknowledge the question, so disdains the answer.

When the universe was pricked, I saw why the Buddha laughed so much.

Head set, go!

Head set, go! Craig and Deb's little Jude just keeps getting bigger and cuter. He's probably listening to the latest from The Peachfish or Brindle.

Engaged

So it looks very much like E and I are engaged. We have matching rings on our left-hand ring fingers and I asked her to marry me in front of her family: mother, father, godmother and her partner, children and their father. Thankfully she said yes!

It’s been a fascinating seven-and-a-half months since we met and fell in love. I have experienced such a range of feeling that if nothing else ever came out of our relationship, I would be grateful for that alone. But of course there has been so much more. We have been learning so much together: fearlessness, sinlessness, compassion, kindness, love – interchangeable words that combine as connection for the two of us.

And together we are learning the art of abundance; we are discovering that abundance begins with the recognition that it has always been bestowed upon us, by sensing the support that surrounds us. The mindset of poverty breeds more poverty, and we are coming to a place where that is foreign to us. We’re not there yet, but opening doors are beckoning.

And through many opportunities for mutual forgiveness we are finding the place where love prevails, and all I can tell you is that it’s a beautiful place. Home.

Orson's well

Orson's well. With a mere two-hours of labour, he's not the only one! Childhood friend Bridie with hubby and two-hour old (that's four hours after labour began) baby Orson. Congrats Bridie!!

The innocence of fear

I found myself feeling defensive yesterday and it was so uncomfortable: thoughts kept me awake as I conjured my counter-attack. And now, in this peaceful moment I can’t find anything to attack, nothing to defend. All I see is a teacher, helping me understand that fear doesn’t work, that it just generates more fear until it finds a place that doesn’t believe in it, a place where it disintegrates as any illusion must.

I used to believe that fear worked too. I used it a lot: I would get angry to make people do what I thought I wanted them to do; I would use it as a motivator for myself, spurring me on in a competitive whirlwind; I would start wars with anybody I thought was ‘against’ me; I was loud and manipulative and believed I was strong. Oh, the childlike innocence of it: to believe I could make things happen; to think that a tantrum would solve things; to imagine the world was against me! I was such a child and was afraid of being found out, so anger was my front.

Today I am such a child and reveling in it. I love my innocence! I love that I don’t know and no longer need to pretend that I do. I love that the more open and honest I become, the clearer both your and my innocence appear.

For there is no option but to be childlike, the only choice is whether or not to recognize it.

The first rhythm

Watching nature dance to the soundtrack of the wind. The first rhythm – the first perceptible rhythm. The moon and the stars and the sun all dance around us too, but the wind is more immediate: it takes but a moment to notice the wind at play and months and years to understand the patterns of the heavens. The first dance perceived was the blowing of the wind.

And turn the ‘w’ upside down, and we have the first dance of experience: the dance of the mind. Interplay of thought, the projection of this, is ultimately the only dance there is.

The picture of the rest of my life

This could be the picture of the rest of my life: cat in lap on bed, girls talking in the background. This moment is all. Am I here for it?

Being breathed

I breathe, soft whispers pass through my nostrils, alternately cool and warm, in and out, breath after breath and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. This is being breathed. This is my body’s job: to breathe and await instruction. Lift arm, move leg, talk, write, it matters not: the body is an instrument, nothing more. How could I ever have been so naïve to believe this body was me? Even possessing it is impossible.

Eyes close for countless moments and I forget I am here, drifting home briefly to the vast empty space. Nothing surrounds me and all is quiet. Eternity visits to remind me where I live. All disappears in the drop of my eyelids and all becomes nothing. There is no hindrance here. And then the world reenters my field of view and I pretend to be J again – as best I can, for now it feels fraudulent: who is this personality I would attempt to emulate? Why would I want to be this to you?

I am nobody. No body. There is nothing to be. There is nothing. Nowhere to go. Nowhere is everywhere.

And that is all.

A fly screen from peace

Katie said that peace is underrated, that people think it would be boring, when in fact it is perpetually exciting. I can find that. What takes me away from peace are my thoughts, and it is only them that know what boring is. To my thoughts, boring is not having them. And peace is a place where I no longer believe them, where they can have no impact, so my thoughts will do everything in their power to avoid that place.

How does mindfulness lead me to no mind? I guess it is because mindfulness takes me beyond my thoughts to the place of awareness. Awareness is the clarity of seeing exactly what is happening around me, and every thought interferes with that awareness; is a fly screen to that clarity. Put a bunch of fly screens together and you won’t be able to see anything but the screens. And this is exactly what happens every time I become preoccupied by my thoughts, every time the present fades from view. So presence is clarity is awareness is mindfulness. And in this space, no mind takes over and is allowed its role to run the show. No mind is emptiness is peace, and how could that be boring? What could possibly be boring about never knowing what’s coming next? For in this space I am just a vessel that is acted on: everything is brand new, nothing is known, and the excitement is perpetual.

Ignorance is bliss

So what I’ve found is this: I hate being ignored. So what? you may ask. Well, I’ve never admitted this to myself – not as far as I can remember. It’s just been sitting there stewing, brewing each time I’m ignored into a nasty cocktail of passive-aggressive tendencies. It was only this morning – after a long, slow burn that started just after I last wrote – that I realized what had been eating at me.

This brings most vividly to mind an incident over 15 years ago when my father came home from work to our apartment in Hong Kong. I was reading something and when he entered and said hello, I just grunted back. Our relationship was already very volatile at that point, and his response reflected this. Outrage would be one way to summarise it. My response was bewilderment: how could anyone get so upset over someone failing to greet them? This morning I realized I’ve been doing the same thing my whole life. My behaviour may differ, but the effect is the same.

What I tend to do is shut off, make myself as invisible as possible. I close up and say as close to nothing as possible. I simmer. I feel tight and heavy, and cannot find a way to smile or laugh. I get resentful, I find fault in those around me. I find plenty of fault in myself, and I tell myself I’ve been wasting my time, that I’m never going to get it. I get violent thoughts and I want to hurt myself and others. I am unable to be present, unable to experience the life that is living me in that moment. I feel unlovable and I act it out.

Wow.

And without the thought that I hate to be ignored, I find myself at peace again, in wonderment at the life I have lived due to the belief in one small thought. I soak up this moment and give myself all the attention I’ve been seeking all this time and it feels warm and loving. I feel at home, complete, supported. And the cat comes to cuddle up just to drive the message home.

I now look forward to being ignored, so I can test whether I still believe that I hate it. I can see how I love being ignored: how in the moments when I want space, there is nothing more in the world I could want. I see how others hate being ignored by me: my Dad, E, the kids – so many people who I have ignored at some point or other come to me with sad, lonely eyes and beg to be acknowledged. And I see how I ignore myself: how whenever I’m down at someone for ignoring me, that what I’m effectively doing is not giving myself the attention I want from them. I see that if I gave myself unconditional love, if I attended to my own needs, that I would never be affected by someone else appearing to shun me again. Yes, that seems truer.

Thank you Katie, for The Work.

Feeling free

“Feel free,” says Jen. And though I sense she is talking about helping myself to her kitchen, it hits me at another level, the level that says, “Yes! I am doing my best and it feels wonderful.” Free of limitation, of expectation, free of my beliefs, my thoughts. Freedom cannot be written into a constitution, it cannot be bought or sold, it isn’t dependent upon external conditions: it is a state of mind. As Katie said, there are freer people doing The Work with her in San Quentin than there were at her intensive on the weekend.

Two days with Katie, taking another look at this mind I would call mine, and I have as good a sense as ever of what freedom must be. It is something like this. It is an openness, a willingness to be wrong, a humility; a beautiful place where you can do no wrong, nor I. It is a place of innocence.

I can have no idea where this weekend will take E or I, and it’s not my business. All I need know is the wonder of this now. For now, the wall is crumbling fast; I am open. I want to be shown where I am wrong, and I want to sit in that space and savour it. I want you – whoever you may be – in your innocence to guide me to peace. I want to experience your wisdom and feel the love that flows through it. I want to be a vessel for truth, nothing more.

So for the moment I am open, vulnerable, and loving it. For the moment all I can find is love. For the moment the innocence of it all shines through and I cannot find a problem in the world. For the moment I live in peace.

We’ll see where it goes! After the School, The Work lived and grew inside me for a very long time. I don’t think it ever died, though at times there its growth was certainly stunted. For months and months the realizations just kept on coming as one idol after another smashed to the ground. This was only two days and I have no expectation. I have nothing at all but this moment, and it is a moment I would give my whole world up for, my entire universe.

Goodbye universe, and thanks for the memories! I love you.

Thank you toes

My toes ask to be released from the shackles of my boots and I remember them for a rare occasion. All this time keeping me standing and walking, and they get little more from me than neglect. Thank you toes for being there for me; many a step you have taken at my beckoning, without question, without remark. Your freedom is granted for this moment. Aaaah…

And I notice other parts of my body that I would normally choose to forget: a sore left heel, tired calves, an unrelenting neck steady in its duty, a stomach that oft gets fed more than it requests, a gently throbbing forehead, teeth resting at one point. I could explore further, and that is a meditation for another time. Meanwhile, thank you body for all you have done for me, thank you for bearing up to the multitude of tests I have given you. I will try to be more gentle on you now, and promise nothing. Thank you.

No two people have ever met

“No two people have ever met.” Six words from Katie today that really sunk in. No matter what I do I will only ever see who I think you are; you will only ever see who you think you are, and the truth is both of us are wrong. Who would we be without our stories? Who would you be without mine? Who would I be without mine, and who would either of us be without yours? There is nothing to be but this now, and the moment I attempt to define it I have entered storyland, and the fiction begins.

The other line I really loved was, “You know what I like about separate bodies: when you hurt, I don’t.” Compassion and empathy are very different things. One would empower me, the other victimize. With one I see there is no problem and with that vision can guide you to the same place; with the other I experience what you do and help make it appear all the more real. Would I choose to continue the pain or alleviate it? The choice is clear, but the world would tell me different.

The stories we tell

Well, the visitors are here, the place was a mess (as I would have described it prior to investigating my thoughts), and they love it! I can see the house now as a warm, lived-in environment. The freedom of a child is the dream of many who were deprived of it and a fond memory of most who weren’t, and this house is a living monument to free children. This house can be heaven and I tried to make it hell. Actually, I was quite successful! It reminds me of a guy ranting one night at a San Francisco hostel: “You know the devil! While you have an ego, you know the devil.” It’s so true, and it possesses me with every stressful thought. Yes, the universe inside of me is at least as infinite as the one without. They are the same thing.

And under it all lies the eternal. The perfect, changeless eternal. My experience of the eternal I would describe as peace. I don’t often find it, but when I do it is constant in its changelessness. It overwhelms me, surrounds me, tickles me under my ribs and loves me. And then I leave it and reenter the story of J in its myriad forms and chapters. It is not the truth that is stranger than fiction, it is the story we tell of what’s true.

And I have to admit, I like a good story!

Zeke, ye shall find

Zeke, ye shall find. My friend Andy with her brand new baby Zeke Marsalis. I didn't even know he was on his way. Those storks have been secretive of late.

Mess

Last night I learned just how much trying to impress people is hurting me. We have some people coming to visit, and it seems that every time I know people are coming over that I enter on a frantic cleaning frenzy. It appears the underlying belief behind this is, ‘the place needs to be presentable to visitors.’ A harmless enough thought, you might think. Well, let me tell you, I don’t recall the last time I had such hateful, violent thoughts, the last time I experienced such rage. Good thing I was alone! And all because I thought the place should be presentable, and believed it wasn’t.

To begin with, who am I to know what presentable is to another set of eyes? It is entirely subjective: one man’s mess is another man’s home sweet home. So the basic assumption that I know what presentable is provides the fundamental hole in my entire belief.

Beyond that though, is the complete dishonesty of it. Dishonesty always seems to make me uncomfortable. And yet it is the driving factor behind the thought: ‘the place needs to be presentable to visitors’ translates to ‘I need visitors to think we live differently than we do.’ Ouch. It is very painful to try to be something I’m not, to present an image that doesn’t exist.

And yet, it comes to me that even without this evidently insane belief, that I would still clean up, if not as fastidiously. But without the thought, I would clean up for our guests’ comfort, not for their impressions. And helping people experience comfort is a form of kindness, and kindness gives me comfort too.

Homeschooling

E teaches three girls about surface tension and five people learn something new. I love this homeschooling thing: such a wonderful opportunity for all to learn. Last night I walked around E with a globe so she could be the sun and see the impact she has on the Earth: day and night, winter and summer. And we know now that flowering plants came after dinosaurs, tetrapods are four-legged creatures, and animals got really big during the ice age. Oh, and they already knew about global warming in 1955 because we are still ending the last ice age. In 1955 they were predicting that New York City would end up 500 feet below the water sometime in the next couple of millennia. I love that global warming was inevitable, that we’re just speeding up the process. Technology is but another double-edged sword: it brings global warming forward and gives us tools to deal with it. Duality is but a collection of double-edged swords, one after the other stabbing ruthlessly in the dark.

Fairies are real

The girls are chanting, “Fairies are real.” And why not? Why would they be any more or less real than the notepad in front of me, than the words forming on the page? “I do believe in fairies, I do, I do,” they now chant. They have the method for making them real, just as Peter Pan did: believe. Everything that appears real is no more than a belief. Don’t believe your eyes and see where that takes you. Please let me know, for I still tend to believe mine.

I fill my mind with facts, when the simple truth is all. Bereft of all else, that is all that’s left. What can change cannot be true, for the truth remains constant, so what I see is a lie, believe it or not. Why would I tell myself such things? Why would I do this to me? Because if I didn’t, there would be no me. My reality makes me real.

Positive negative

I have found a wonderful way to welcome ‘negative’ thoughts and feelings – or it has found me. Each one is met with the thought that that is what I should be feeling or thinking right now: I should be angry right now; I should be thinking I made a mistake; I should be thinking this person is crazy, etc. As soon as I see it from this perspective, my behaviour just becomes amusing – like I have been found out: oh look at him, isn’t he sweet the way he actually believes those things. The ego hates being found out, so when it does it gets all embarrassed and goes into hiding. It really is a sweetie, this ego of mine, though it’d hate to hear it said. It would prefer to be strong and courageous, but it’s not – it’s just an innocent little babe-in-arms, using the body as its cradle.

Life as meditation

I think I would like for life to become my meditation, to be present at every opportunity. I think I would like ‘not me’ to represent me always. I would like to dissolve into space, like dust, and let that space represent me instead. Ah, that feels peaceful; so steady and simple.

The butterfly fluttering by has no need for anything other than what this moment provides, nor does the rosebush budding beside me, or that bumblebee buzzing indiscriminately, or the bird perched upon the fence. Presence is all they have. Presence is all.

These are my teachers: birds, bees, butterflies and bushes, blades of grass and the wind that whooshes. If I open my eyes, that’s all I see: myriad teachers explaining to me how it works, how it is, how I am in all this. Learning is looking, that is all: paying attention to the details so small. When I think for myself I am lost, so confused; when I see just one self, I cannot be refused.

And two butterflies intertwine in a dance we call life.

Nothing or everything?

This is what happens when I let thought get in the way.

While innocently following the simple directions, everything is straightforward, everything makes sense, and nothing is too difficult. The moment I try to take control, run my own life and direct it the way I think it should go, the burden becomes unmanageable. Weighed under by expectation, complicating everything to the nth degree, I am all of a sudden overwhelmed.

What would I choose? I can attempt to think my way through this and dig myself deeper into the quagmire, or I can let go, surrender and trust. It is only a choice between faith and faithlessness. And faithlessness is, after all, merely faith in nothing. So what would I choose to have faith in? Nothing or everything? The answer ought to be clear, yet so often the clouds are thicker than whipped cream. And that would be butter!