It is a quiet night, the thick coastal fog muffles the rhythmic road rubber of the freeway and the bass tones from the club on the corner float down our deserted block. My beeswax candle’s flame is still but glowing. A quarter of the wine rests untempted in the bottle, turned a quarter turn away from me, on the wood coffee table inlaid chessboard, “Chateau de la Chaize wine bottle to night, B2.
B e ing
Anyhow, here I am. Quiet night. And when the words go away? I don’t feel that gripping desire that there is something left to do, or that there is something left undone.
And what then now?
What if everything is perfect? What if everything about us is perfect? Our past, our now, whatever future experience we are to have, what if we don’t have to DO, or to BE
What if the just feeling into the being of beingness is enough?
There’s no exchange to be made, penance to be paid, worth to be proved, gift to be given.
It’s just being in the beingness of it, or the non beingness of it.
There’s no grand authority out there proclaiming us valid or invalid, worthy or not, no quest to fulfill but to finally come down to being, to being, or to not being, to both. To being in the not being and not being and not anything. Not even being. Feeling.
And then in the feeling, deep in the feeling, in the feeling, the feeling is so rich, and deep in that richness, in the feeling,
there is so much space.
There’s so much space in that feeling there’s no feeling. What can it possibly feel like, all that space? Nothing.
It feels like nothing.
Stop trying so hard. Just by being nothing you are doing so much.
You are letting so much of the universe feel itself it wants to throw up, the momentum of all that feeling is so much. So much in all that stillness, so much presence to all of that other stuff that manifests itself and moves out there. What is there more to do than to feel the universe? To feel all of that manifestation? All of it? It’s almost sickening, the density and history and sheer multiplicity of all of this manifestation and manifested. God the movement of it all.
It’s all moving. You are the only thing that can ever really be still. Everything else is moving all around you, all around, always, always, always, even while you sleep this world keeps moving, moving, moving. Whole lives pass in and out of existence while you sleep. The sheer volume of movement happening intoxicating. God it will just not stop, will it?
You wish it would but it won’t. And here we are. Just being still. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. And while everything spins around us, we are being everything, because we are the ones feeling the watching this whole entire dance.