Sounds all around.
and the odd chainsaw.
Cars scrunching the gravel
as they come and go.
The Buddha's teaching to Bahiya.
To let a sound be just a sound.
To let that which is sensed
be only that which is sensed.
Awareness and knowing,
being just that.
Without adding any more to it.
Without the 'I' making.
The story of
Neither here, nor there, nor inbetween the two.
This, the Buddha said, is the end of suffering.
It's the longing, the loathing, and conceit.
The getting stressed
and taking it personally.
That's what gets in the way.
That's the problem.
That's what I need to let go of.
Without that there is just this.
And when there is just this.
there is no subject, no object.
The self disappears.
And when that happens there is peace.
Pummelled by negative thoughts.
Sickness often makes them worse.
Creaky joints and muscle aches.
A clumsy fatigue,
And the humidity bakes.
But it's nothing personal.
But it's nothing personal.
Where did it come from?
It just grew by itself.
From a sperm and an egg.
I didn't make it.
Am I the body?
This bag of flesh.
Fated to age and one day die.
And when it becomes a corpse,
Is there still an 'I'?
What is it that animates it so?
When the body dies where do 'I' go?
I watch the myriad sense impressions.
Choosing not to
like or dislike,
but still feeling love.
Metta for the body (-:
May it be well.
These changing sensations.
Not who I am.
I brush the delusional thinking aside
The inner critic.
I know that now.
I don't have to pay attention to it anymore.
Not self, not me, not I.
Just conditioned loops from the past.
They don't last,
They arise, persist for a time, and cease.
I don't have to listen to these negative thoughts.
They're not me
So I just let them be,
While I centre with root energy.
The sensations in my feet
As I walk down the street.
Each step a beautiful connection with Mother Earth.
The ancient witness of every birth.
Where does perception come from?
Our memory and
Of the past.
The mind gives it all meaning
And falls for its own interpretations.
Believes them to be true.
Becoming our opinions.
And the stories we weave in our heads.
We conceptualise our perceptions
Elaborate on them
Identify with them
Make assumptions about them
Assign significance to them.
But their nothing personal.
And consciousness where does it come from?
Is it a product of the brain?
It contains everything.
Yet I don't know how it works
It keeps changing.
Sometimes it isn't even there
When I'm asleep and not aware.
Does it still exist when there's no sensations?
Who is this 'I' anyway?
This person I cannot find.
Is it just a construct of the mind?
All of this
Where is it happening?
What is it?
The heavy baggage of the ego.
Full of compulsive,
These restless involuntary movements of the mind.
That lead to confusion,
and a whole mountain of suffering in the end,
all for just a teacup of pleasure,
made of fragile bone-china.
When one sees
That everything we cling to
Is empty of self.
One lets go and
That psychic energy is freed up
Empty of conceit.
The compulsions cease,
and there is peace... ah..
Then the self returns.
And one gets deluded once more.
Caught up in the things of the world.
Swept this way and that by the changing winds.
Pain and pleasure,
Gain and loss,
Success and failure,
Fame and disrepute.
These are the eight wordly winds.
Then one sees again that it is stress,
Understands this is suffering,
The emptiness of self.
Lets go of the trash
Sweeps it aside
All that silly nonsense.
Returns to calm
One wakes up from the self-centred dream.
And there is cessation, relief, a moment of bliss.
No longer driven, one rests in peace.
Till thwarted again
by one's past conditioning.
The ego pops back up
like a jack-in-a-box.
Rinse and repeat.
This is the work of purifying the mind
It can take lifetimes for some.
But as mindfulness develops,
And one's ability to calm and centre the mind gets stronger.
The untangling gets easier.
And through it all one must not strain,
just the right amount of effort is needed.
Just what you can
The best you got,
At your pace.
That will get the work done,
not too tight,
not too loose,
One steers one's course through the middle way,
avoiding the extremes.
Let love be your compass.
When one realises that nothing is personal.
One's sense of humour returns.
One stops taking it all so seriously.
One feels at peace.
And from that freedom,
joy naturally rises,
Independent of the world.
And love rises too.
A greater love.
A love without conditions attached to it.
An unselfish love.
A love without a trace of the conceit 'I am'.
The happiest, most beautiful love of all.
A vessel emptied of self
can manifest that.
There is no 'I',
Whatever I see, hear, smell, taste, touch, think about.
It is not me, not mine.
Just stories I weave in the mind.
Empty of self.
Everything is just emptiness.
That's all it is.
Nothing to fear really.
Except not understanding what is meant by emptiness.
It is our ignorance of this that makes us suffer.
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