I’m not sure what this post is supposed to be… it’s not exactly prose, not poetry.
The gift.
? Pure experience, waves moving through pure experience.
The sleep.
I am this person. I do what I will for me.
The result.
I feel lack, I am separate, I suffer.
The opening.
By Grace I ask “who am I really” and “what knows this”?
The seeking.
I hear, I understand, I surrender.
The understanding.
This experiencing is impersonal. This constructed me is NOT what I am…
The recognition.
I am pure awareness knowing this apparent world of names and forms.
The death.
An illusory me says ‘yes’ to it’s disappearance.
The loss.
Nothing of value is lost.. ignorance, identity, attachments.
The experience.
A fragrance of wholeness, peace and contentment.
The happenings.
Arisings and outcomes are what is here. Not for a me, not mine.
The acclimation.
Events and traumas trapped in the body are seen, experienced, freed.
The now.
Clear seeing of what is here without expectation or judgement.
The deepening.
Established in being, steady in wisdom, not two.
The sharing.
Actions & interactions are a celebration of Truth, an invitation… a re-gifting.
