I don’t have a lot of interest in improving the world anymore or any capacity to see it as needing improvement. Life as it is, is what’s here and playing make believe or pretend no longer grabs my attention in any way, so call me whatever you like.

I was never much of an activist, other than perhaps an activist for seeing through every fear that clogged up my heart and mind and gut with its fallacies

I didn’t need to look into a murky crystal ball to see a hoped-for future. There was an immediate response. I felt expansion with each fear seen through, with each fear returned to the grave of its arising. Fear became my dancing partner, my good friend, for each time one arose, I knew that something was willing to be seen, to be set free and if it was willing, who was I to argue.

Fast forward to today …

People ask me why I write …

… why I bother to share insights when this world isn’t at all what most think, when I am not what I used to think, when nothing and no one is real, at least not real in the way reality is normally defined, when what is left of me seems to be disintegrating slowly with no stopping point in sight and no one who cares to stop it.

It’s actually laughable. There are two premises here. One, that both I and the world don’t exist as commonly thought. Agreed. Two, and this is the truly comical one, that this non-existent being is writing, is sharing her insights, that she has the power to write or to stop.

The fact that I have little interest in improving the world could lead you to assume that I have no compassion for the world and her beloveds. That would be inaccurate. What it actually means is that I have no need for anyone to be different, for the world to be different. I love you absolutely as you are, even when it seems like you don’t love me. You don’t need to change for me to fully accept you. Compassion arises when you don’t see it that way and struggle to change, to change yourself and to change your world.

I used to struggle. I know how painful it is. I also recognize the perfection in each moment, in the struggle, in the breakthroughs, in the slippery sliding mud bath that is life. I see it and I see you through the lens of that perfection, realizing that in this moment life could not be different … and yet it is always changing and rearranging itself, manifesting differently today than yesterday.

Life acts. Life — infinite aliveness — is the moving principle and the appearance of material solidity, both, rolled into one, the appearance of multiplicity that has never been two, nor two plus. Life reads. Life writes. Life attends to life, extending appearances in apparent time and space. I, the appearance that looks like an old lady who is good with words and has seen through the ruse of separation (depending on who you listen to), is not I at all, but Life life-ing, one of its 8.5 billion human forms in this particular maze of amazement.

So … even though there is little interest in improving the world, the offering offers itself. The pointers land with sticky precision. Words hit their targets, targets that are not known to the seeming writer, but are perfectly arranged roadmaps of creative force.

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