Unnamable..

 

What can be said of love?  Usages vary from the

quite trivial to levels of soaring philosophical 

thought. The word is often caught in the language 

trap of subject and object.  Finally, as Miranda says,

it is simply This. Religious teachings often make the 

word to to be prescriptive, as in love-your-neighbor, 

which places it back in the trap.  So, it seems if 

love is not discovered as This,  free and not free, 

and inclusive even of the trivial, the levels,  the 

traps, the prescriptions, everything, it is not love... 

Only the dream..

 

Only the dream..

The appearances of no-thing

Are all of the arisings..

Yet..

Appearances and no-thing are

Labels which detract from the

Seamlessness of the dream and

Which are already erased..

All of those seeming-things and our

Seeming-self among them

Seeming to be here and gone..

Yet..

The seemings direct our attention

To something subjective

Also detracting from the

Raw stuff of dreaming

The seemings are already erased..

Only the dream...

Last day..

 

Last day..

He has found 

As he always has found that for

Which we have longed and

Searched..It is being..whole..

Deo is everything including a

Cat appearing to watch outside..

Outside and inside..the scene 

In the street..yesterday and today

Nothing excluded..including the

Can of tuna in his memory..

This dance of everything in a

Life appearing to end without

Ending..inviting us to enter

Our own dance of life...

~~CC

This..

 

This..

Is said to be indescribable..

Elaborators say it is spontaneously

Everything..without time and space

Without beginning and end..and it

Is nothing appearing to no one..

All of these words flailing around to

Dress up another little word..This..

And it does need dressing..This seems

To be something close-in like this 

Keyboard and screen..there must be

A better word..but for now such does

Not seem to pop out..and there seem to

Be many who are happy with This..so

Let's be happy for a while..

As while expires..we can recognize This as 

A thought and that thought floats by followed 

By thoughts of  finger dances on a keyboard

Or wind softly dripping from the rooftop

Or of light sounding as an auto's blare..

This..may have just fallen into disuse

Or not...

 

Dog whistles..

 

Words are portraits of separation

The separation dream from which

There is no escape..

Yet we read words..many words..

And make hook-ups between them

Dream stories conjured with abandon..

We discover speakers knowing that

Words are portraits of separation

Others who seem not aware..

Perhaps there is a dog whistle for the 

Resonating ear..hearing no whistle

Finds words not yet whistling..

This whistling story appearing...

A wisp of wind..

 

Non-duality seems a long-sought goal for those who

have progressed, layer by layer, to that which seems close

to becoming nothing at all. All of those meditative paths

have all expressed and melted into what now seems as a 

final melting.  Yet the sticky thing that remains is the wish 

to talk about it, to explain your journey and what seems as 

your arrival, explain it to your self using a very minimum 

of toeholds. And the thought looms that you are no further 

along than told by a memory of that beginning.  Waiting 

for a breeze, no more than a silent breath through wispy 

curtains, echoing from the distant hills in a soundless

whisper..to end a self, which never was... 

Wild Celebration..

 

IT'S ALL JUST A KIND OF WILD CELEBRATION, FOR NO ONE

Me is the one I think I am.

But that one has never been included in what’s going on—this celebration, this wildness.

Me hasn’t been excluded—nothing is ever excluded from what’s always going on.

What’s going on—this wild celebration—includes absolutely everything.

There are no fences, to leave anything on the other side.

There’s no other side.

But Me is excluded from this wild celebration of reality, by its unreality.

There is no reality, and no unreality.

But Me has invented unreality, and made itself unreal, by saying “I am real.”

Me is exclusion—so it can’t celebrate, and isn’t wild.

Me has invented itself, as exclusion from what is, and as a constant search for wildness and celebration.

By inventing reality and unreality, and insisting “I am real,”

Me sits excluded, and longs for the wild celebration of what always is.

~~Dan Litvak

Faintness..

 

Faintness may give the impression of fading separation.  

An art lesson for a seeker.  The seeker will then

point to what remains, when fading ends, as the recognition 

sought..formlessness pointing to nothing.  Or the seeker

might see the faintness as increasing separation.  Nothing

appearing more and more distinct and definitional.  Both

processes are, however, quite enticing, but futile.  Liberation 

is the end of process with this spontaneous appearance,

which resists any and all definition..but may include 

the processes and enticements suggested by artful faintness.   

Summer blue..

 

Season's colors seem to yield

Spring green to summer blue

To autumn red and winter white..

Appearances these to no one..

Annual colorings appearing at once

In daring spontaneity in the

Reading of these words...

A real appearance..

 

A real appearance.  What is real?  The appearance is real as

an appearance..to no one.  That is the wholeness..No-thing 

appearing as a window framed with green leaves of spring, 

with somewhat somber coloring.. 

Perfect..as No-thing appearing...

Into each life some rain must fall..

 

Into each life some rain must fall..

That is the consolation of beliefs 

In separation..yet

Beauty is found abounding in the

Separation of lives and rain 

In the appearance of these

As endlessly..no-thing...

The story..

 

The story of someone being trapped in the story can be a very painful story indeed, but there is no one who is trapped (or free), and no one for whom pain actually belongs. But wonderfully the painful story of being a trapped someone can be seen as just that....a story. This seeing or recognition can seemingly be the beginning of a new kind of a story, a story of liberation, but there really is no new story....a story is a story is a story and this seeing or recognition is simply the story writing itself all by itself.....it's just somehow obvious that the story isn't personal and that it's just a story.....no one separate from it and no one who is even in control of it. It simply plays out all by itself and the seeming character who seems to be doing many thing is just part of the story......you are the story.

~~Antonia Lovejoy