We start out as clear experiencing without filters of good and bad — stuff just is, but it doesn’t take long before the filters fall into place like prismatic glasses we put on and forget we are wearing. Our parents, not knowing any better, pass along their knowing programs and instead of free clear experiencing we become individual programs — knowers.
Some of us remain knowers for the balance of our lives, adding layers of knowing with each new experience. Eventually, stacking belief upon belief, all we can see is black, the starless rigid black of judgment and fear.
What we feel is worse. We’ve donned one layer of belief after another, claiming each new veneer as ourselves, laminates of time and space, burying breath, sinking a band about our chests, enshrouding ourselves in small dark boxes where feelings can’t even be felt anymore.
There is a reason so many are in pain and don’t know it.
Some though glimpse the possibility that they are programs and begin editing the codes that run them … or so it seems. This arrives by grace, for the entirety is grace alone.
No personally identified being deserves to wake up, or could earn enough karma to break free. No person has ever awakened, and that’s not just spiritualese. This awakens itself. This is all there is. This sleeps. This crawls into a box. This glimpses. This edits. This struggles. This awakens. All words for appearances in consciousness.
Appearances of separation, including words which cannot but be duality, are all bark, no bite.
For some mysterious reason for some expressions the awakening process kicks into gear and honestly, knowing the road this one walked, I’m not sure I would have chosen it if I could have. Now, of course, but early upon the path, hell no. Heck to be honest, some nights not that long ago, it would have been 50-50. Losing everyone. Losing everything. Losing this ordinary delicious precious experience of individuality, myself. Who’d choose that?
Good thing I didn’t have a choice.
Maybe those in whom this appearance arises are just closer to the funnel’s neck, the funnel that recycles the apparent back into the absolute, the infinity loop of awareness and appearance. Maybe us spiritual folk are the dregs that couldn’t play the game right and are being ejected. Maybe it’s random. Maybe we can’t know. What’s certain, well as certain as certain gets, is not knowing appears to be part of the game.