This trip downstate has brought back visceral feelings of Oneness.
To suddenly look at the sky, the bare-tilled fields, to listen to the sound of lawn mowers and cooing doves and to feel intimate with what’s arising, as if there is no separation, no middleman “I” attempting to claim a singular perspective.
Here it is, suddenly whole, suddenly widened. It’s not mental. It’s not emotional. It’s kinesthetic. It’s the base of perception, the utter truth, only perception arising.
The viewpoint of the personality dims and shimmers on the periphery, a mirage.
The walls of the restaurant are suddenly your walls.
You’ve mistaken yourself to be a person, a human, a limited point of view. When–truly–you’re everything that rises, and have always been, except for those thoughts that boxed you into a jail, a cave, a song that played over and over and over and over again.
It feels like exquisite freedom. You’ve been caught and now you’re free. You’re the same arising, but you’re different. No one can tell the difference in you because the same words rise from your mouth. Only now you don’t feel like they’re coming forth AS you. They’re coming forth IN you. And it’s a huge difference, an Epiphany, the Pentecost, everything you always sought, but also everything you always had.
I delight in this Oneness, I fall on my knees completely open-armed before it. You can’t drink it all in. Or perhaps you drink it in and you’re drunk on the ordinary world, the magnificence of keyboards and photographs and digital clocks and a mother planting flowers and the phone ringing, ringing, ringing.
A thought arises in the Oneness and it’s not God. The thought isn’t God, like it’s been for so many years, something which identifies, something which is true. It’s just a rising thought, like a sparrow rising from a bush. You can act on it or not. It’s not your master. You’re not its slave. You’re simply the space where the thought arises like a phantom, like spirit-laughter behind an invisible bush, like the brush of love.
In this undivided state you simply allow. That’s all you are. Love arising. Full awareness. Oneness. Yet you don’t even label it as any of those things. Even the labeling limits it too much; makes it less than it’s Allness. It’s too commonplace to be labeled, to be thought. It’s simply what has always existed and what shall evermore exist even though–
–tomorrow or next week I’ll have forgotten once again this undivided nature, this essence. I will be singing a Kathy-song and maybe even fighting with What-Is and maybe even moaning and believing that moaning thought. I’ll be judging this part of the Whole and fussing about that part of the whole, totally oblivious to the golden song which continues to arise effortlessly all around, the golden song that never ceases its eternal singing even when we forget, even when we pretend, even when we imagine we’re a separate person with conflicting feelings.
When it’s so clear that our body extends to the stars and past that corn field and over that rushing river and around that sound of the dog barking, how could we forget? How could we condense ourselves into bodies and thoughts and tears and laughter and call it “I”?