All my life I’ve longed for Home.
Not a physical home, but a spiritual home.
An interior peace-that-passeth-all-understanding.
People would say it existed. People would insist it didn’t exist. People would imagine a state that comes and goes. People would say even talking about it created feelings of inferiority in others. (People mirrored my every belief about it.)
Some folks long to be a poet, a photographer, a mother.
I only longed to embrace Home. (OK, I lie. I wanted other identities and possessions as well, sometimes fiercely. But the longing for Home eclipsed all the others month after month, year after year.)
For the last week or so, I’ve found Home, once again.
Ahhh, blessed peace, blessed relief, blessed joy, blessed everything.
Next week (maybe today) I may be back in the dream world of personality, totally identified. This journey toward Home keeps rubber-banding between extreme attachment to profound letting go. Perhaps many of us experience that.
When I’m attached to personality and thoughts, I read words like these and think, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Spare me! It’s all fine & dandy to say you’re Home–but I don’t know how to get there!”
From the position of Home it’s seen very clearly that thoughts like these are the prime impediment.
A thought arises and it’s embraced, it’s loved. It’s allowed. But it’s none of my business. Yes, that sort of describes it. The thought is no longer a life-and-death matter.
(Even this isn’t true. Some thoughts are seen to be extremely helpful such as “Turn off the burner on your kitchen stove.”)
Thoughts can be felt as fascinating, disturbing, challenging, loving, magnificent, stupid, wonderful. But it’s none of my business. The “me” has expanded or dissolved and no longer attaches to thoughts as actualities, as vital important decisions which must be made.
A thought arises, “I should write a blog about Home.” Other thoughts appear to disagree or agree.
Home just waits. It simply allows. It doesn’t move to write the blog. It doesn’t move not to write the blog. It assesses.
And then Life moves. It either writes or doesn’t. It might wash the dishes. It might go to work. It might decide to get dressed. Or it quickly moves to turn off the kitchen burner.
Home views all this with utter fascination and total disinterest. It embraces all paradoxes, except when it doesn’t.
I noticed the last two days a repeated thought causing panic (and panic is totally allowed as another movement, nothing separate, nothing to be pushed away): “I AM GOING TO LOSE THIS AGAIN!”
Do you know what stands between losing it and not losing it?
Believing that thought. Believing there’s an I who can lose Home.
Will an I believe it again and fall back into the dream world of identification?
Only a thought would care.