XVI
In the realm of the inadvertent consequences of its historical emanation,
Humankind is not leaving itself much scope for viable engagement.
In current jargon, it is coined “painting yourself into a corner.”
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The lone drop catapulting above the indivisible crashing wave
Entertains the mistaken perception of individuality,
But only until its inevitable return home.
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Pure eternal awareness is the common ground for all
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The only one holding you back from isness is you.
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Life and death amble serenely arm in arm.
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You are as much nothing as everything.
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What goes up must come down.
Existence is a statistical mystery.
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Each moment passes the same.
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You are guiltless, innocent of all charges.
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Only madmen, fools, and children question why.
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Like any other beast with limbs, fins, or wings,
You are a sack of bones that appears to move around.
You have the potential to realize awareness of the indivisible,
But do you have the capacity for discernment, do you have the doubt?
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Who-what-where-when-why-how are you, but the imaginary notions about yourself?
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How foolish to be attached to anything that cannot be in anything more than time.
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The now that you perceive, the now to which you cling, is already ash.
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Even just one life, no matter the role played, is an eternal epic.
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Who will give their life to own an immaculate birth?
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The sun makes the light show possible,
But the source of its power is ever you.
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Take your ashram wherever you go.
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Spin the tale on the mystery.
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Love thy Self.
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Idiot! It is all Samadhi!
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Home is now, wherever you are.
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Quantum is the scientific name for God.
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Gaia has always been in absolute and perfect balance.
Disharmony is but consciousness as humanity manifests it.
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What is manifest existence as most live it but a dulling preservation
Of a bag of bones, its relationships, its possessions, and its thoughts.
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About the technical matters of the manifest, you may pretend to know a great deal,
But regarding the source of this mystery, you will never extract a measurable clue.
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Discern the face and mind you had before birth; it is without attributes.
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Some things, some actions, just do not warrant much attention.
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The mind-body identity ever seeks fulfillment.
It is the intertwining of insatiable desires and trammeling fears.
The quietude of awareness is the oblivion of origin,
Well prior to all mortal trepidations.
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Cause and effect are time-bound concepts of continuity
Born of the mind's subjective collusion with the senses.
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To spend your existence counting a mound of gold
Is to miss the immeasurable wealth you truly are.
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It is not the leaves that move,
Nor is it the breeze that moves them.
It is the stirring mind that creates everything.
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The mind-body is a manifest receiver of the indivisible,
A potential portal requiring only your immediate attention.
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Neither telescopes nor microscopes, nor any other technology,
Will aid your comprehending what this quantum mystery truly is.
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Travel prior to all experience, all cause and effect, until only the ungraspable,
Untamable, immutable dreamtime experiencing of timeless nowness remains.
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What you seek in relationship outwardly, you must first and foremost discern within.
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The more you have, the more you must straighten, dust, maintain and protect.
How many endless distractions from the one and only reality do you require?
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Yearning for an order, a stability, that the dream can never provide,
The mortal mind-body identity inevitably loses equanimity
When circumstances fall short of expectations.
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All desires for form and concept are the projection of memory,
Which has no relationship with the present moment
Other than passing blindly through it.
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Giving into insatiable desire leaves it unquenchable.
Only when the busy mind stills to its movement
Can there be the blossoming of serenity.
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That lifeless moth on the windowsill
Is your manifest body's most certain conclusion.
Its vessel was as fleeting as your own.
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Trying to hold on to now is like a drowning swimmer
Grasping for a life preserver moving ever out of reach.
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What you are attached to is not outward manifestation,
But the habitual movement of the ceaseless thoughts about it,
Personality is the outcome of this patterned consumption.
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Surrender cannot be conditional; it is not a tit-for-tat relationship.
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All your stresses are related to your desire
And the knowing dread that they can never be fulfilled,
That their temporary and egocentric nature will ever be incomplete.
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Just because you cannot discern your ultimate nature, do not doubt its reality.
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Do not confuse aloneness with loneliness; the latter is time-bound, the former eternal.
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Do you not grow weary of all the scams instigated in the name of god?
Look into the depths of the aloneness within for that which is truly true.
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The illusion of existence is like a game played long and hard,
But sooner or later the final buzzer sounds,
And it is time to go home.
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Empires and mountains and galaxies come and go.
The quantum isness indivisibly pervades them all.
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Your dread of karma creates karma.
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Union within manifests without.
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What you think of yourself or another,
What others think of themselves or you,
None of it means anything past the vanity,
And your death to time ends all concern.
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All manifest diversity is imagined.
It is but a light show, a sensory illusion,
Masking the indivisible, unassailable unicity.
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Clayness manifest reflects godness for you,
You reflect yourself for the unmanifest godness.
The sculptor and the sculpted are one in the same.
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Mother Gaia, like your Self, is an smidgeon of indivisibility,
That must one day cease being the playground of dreamtime.
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The only way any deity will intervene in this manifest play is through you.
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High mystery is open to any and all whose karmic seeds are voluntarily sewn.
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It is easy to maintain a sense of union with isness
When life is pleasant and unburdened and easily traversed.
But when times are challenging, for whatever reason,
That is the genuine telling of your illusory epic.
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When the shallows of thought no longer entice you,
When the depth of your being calls,
There is no going back.
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We are all food in something’s dream.
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It is the indivisible awareness,
The quantum nothingness of eternity,
That is the essence of all things.
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Until the day the body returns to dust,
You will face a vast array of temptations
Ceaselessly concocted by a restless mind.
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Until you learn to give yourself back to what you are,
You will suffer the pleasures and pains of dreamtime.
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Subject and object are fashioned by the temporal manifestation.
Neither plays itself out without the other in this dualistic weaving.
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There is nothing you must prove, nothing you must become.
It has all been a laughable hoax played out by the mind seeking security,
When none was at all possible, or really ever even necessary.
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Existence, when seen though the personal eye, is a complex, unending maze.
Through the impersonal gaze, it is a masterfully choreographed, illusory dance.
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To see only your own suffering misses the commonality of all existence.
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Remember your Self; let the memory of the other do what it will.
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So many teachers that you have long since lost count.
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Be aware of self-absorption; discern Self-absorption.
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Dive beneath the choppy waves of the mind's reefs
Into the silent, serene depths of eternal beingness.
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At the core of your personality is the insecurity
Explaining your adaptation to mortal existence.
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This quest is a love affair with Soul.
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Humanity plays out so much confusion.
Clarity is the awareness, the stillness within.
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Become the totality you are.
All thoughts about it, all delusions about it,
Are nothing more than a diverting dance with the vanities.
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To discover and unify with isness
You must long for it with your entire being.
Though the mind is the medium that gets you there
The inseparable has nothing to do with any thoughts about it.
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Why that which is immortal would choose to experience mortal fare
Is an inexplicable mystery all must fathom at the core of their beingness.
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You are an eternal mixture of clay and gold, both mundane and extraordinary.
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There is not a moment that goes by that you are not making up your mind.
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In one word or less, show that you understand your true nature.
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You are ultimately your own teacher, teaching your Self.
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What vanity surrounds the play of dogmatic morality.
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Nothing lasts longer than long ever will.
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Why pretend what you do not feel?
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Samadhi is a mind on empty.
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You need not justify your existence.
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Nothing seems to matter a lot to the rare few.
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Anything that promotes dualistic notion is delusion.
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In beginnings, there is creation, in endings, destruction.
And between, whatever can be preserved for its brief while.
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Each and every moment in any ever-changing stage setting
Is cloaked in the mystery you are, have ever been, will ever be.
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Unless you win a lucky spin in some lottery, or happen upon a pot of gold,
You are not likely to get much of anything out of something
Into which you put piecemeal or no effort.
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Yet another dogmatic, idolatrous, cultish hoax played out as religion.
Why waste any eternal breath attempting to convince others
Of that which is obvious to those who are not blind?
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True meditation is the ending of time, the stillness before time,
Complete and utter surrender, within and without,
To the ever-presentness of Self.
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The hologram born of imagination is discerned complete
When the awareness you believe a separate you
Fully realizes that its true, ultimate nature
Is the infinite, eternal oneness.
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Futility is beating your head on the wall,
Believing you can change anything
Without changing into your Self.
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Now is ever the point of reckoning.
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To the bitter end?
Or some quick, self-determined conclusion?
Aren’t they all of the sword
By which we live?
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You have pretended it all matters long enough.
Feel free to take a long vacation,
An eternal holiday,
From this theater of the absurd.
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What need or concern would the clayness ever have
For light or sound, form or being, thought or memory?
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Never been much for people telling you how to live, have you?
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Totally, completely, absolutely, indivisibly, undeniably,
The You, you really are, have ever been, will ever be.
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The passions draw you out into this imaginary world.
Without their hot and cold, you are nothing more
Than the infinite stillness of pure awareness.
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Everybody and everything is not going to wake up,
And what does it matter, really?
If you are awake,
There is really no other needing to awaken.
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What a mystery this holographic matrix,
A mirage of space and time,
An imaginary sandbox,
In which all play,
But none truly exist.
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Seriously, folks,
At the fundamental level,
How can anyone really be all that different
From any other life form?
Come on,
Think about it.
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Memories are but vague perceptions
Of what appeared to have happened.
A veil cloaking unmanifest awareness.
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You are governed by continuity
Because you give it the weight of reality.
Space-time plays out its illusion in every given mind.
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If you wander about thinking and behaving
You are somehow superior to a wide slice of the pie,
You are more than likely in for a relatively rude awakening.
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The Return to Wonder
Field Notes from the Unknown
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved