I will tell you what happened earlier this week.
Because the telling is the same as the receiving.
Because someone asked.
I sat in meditation, a solid person, thinking “I” was a solid person.
Somewhere in the meditation, in the inquiry which demanded “What am I?”, in the inquiry which saw the space as alive, as real, something shifted.
In that shift everything shifted.
In that shift, “I” became everything perceived.
The drilling woodpecker, the hum of my husband’s voice, the refrigerator’s motor. The desk, the table, the carpeting.
“I” am it all.
“I” am nothing.
In that moment, laughter arose.
We know who we are in every moment. We are everything, everything, yes everything! But we limit ourselves to a certain human perspective, a certain association with body or mind, a certain cutting away.
Later, it all blurs.
I am an individual again. Back in a body. Thinking a self exists.
Dreaming a no-self exists.
What is real? What is dream? What beckons beyond self, individuality, humanity, laughter, reality?
If I could tell you, this blog would chuckle.
This blog would guffaw.
This blog would grin.
But I can’t tell you–can’t tell you anything–and therefore you must look at yourself and determine if your solidity makes dinner tonight; if it catches a glimmer of moonlight before you fall asleep in between your shifting sheets.