The Threshold of Tao
At every threshold of fear, bracing, self-judgement — relax.
Whenever it seems as though there’s no time — take a breath.
If you find yourself rushing to get to the solution — savour!
This life isn’t to be solved. Your being isn’t to be beaten; commanded. All who would “do good” commit an act of violence upon the world — the mother who birthed them. Not seeing her goodness, they claim her fruits and favours as their own.
Not seeing her wonderful orderliness (which goes beyond human comprehension), they seek to “clean her up”. And in that seeking to fix — subtle and glamourised and spiritualised — I see blindness. I see war, masquerading as health. I see hatred, masquerading as love. I see dogmatic decay masquerading as morality.
To live within the illusion that unless made to change, the world is not okay, is the highest form of hubris and surely to be humbled. If the humbling is needed, it always comes. More gently, if we’re willing to have a laugh about it. All that is needed, will come to pass, whether by a gentle movement or a crash — though neither need be called “nature’s power”. Even that is too reductive, for nature has reformed herself into every weave of every tapestry one could possibly traverse in this world, such that she permeates all things, many of which we might call “man made”.
From behind man’s eyes, nature looks. Life. Life looks.
There is only the looker. One looker, many eyes. One way, many paths. One God, many forms.
Thus, at the threshold… relax, for the ends will come or their own accord and the means are a mystery. Yes, the story one tells of the world and the story which animates the worlds, are rarely the same. The self-images, whether grandiose or shameful are rarely the fact. So, relax. Tell whatever story you like, as the music of mystery moves you through way it was always going to!
Synchronicity takes care of causality.
The beautifully complex subtle layers move through gross, because they permeate what can only be moved via saturation, not by force.
Love’s way — in the way I know it — seeps in quietly and works little by little, until all of a sudden, there is a spontaneous POP! And something utterly radiant emerges from where there used to be only a crusty armour.
The ways of life are not to be understood through calculation or analysis alone, but rather, to be received and surrendered to. This is not an outside surrender to a greater force whose moral standing commands respect — no… This is an inner surrender to that which beats one’s heart; to that which gives canvas to the colours of the senses.
Whether this mode of life is the mode of life, I don’t know.
Whether all humans can access it, I don’t know.
I’d love to believe we all can, and I’d love to encourage those whose trained intellects are hollowing them out, to soften into their beautiful internal guidance system. But I won’t hedge my bets on it, nor will I forcefully convert anyone, because that would be counterproductive for my own heart.
Instead, I will avail myself to the synchronous magic beyond my comprehension.
How lovely it is, not to understand.
———
To play with the wind
Seems mystical
To he who has forgotten himself
