Write. Seek to articulate what is as yet a fairly vague thought or
awareness in consciousness. Make it more explicit, clearer, and
understand what it is you are thinking rather unthinkingly. Help it to
come to understanding through writing.
It is the issue. Beyond all knowables, beyond everything or being intended by rational consciousness, there is the mysterious whole in which each and all are immersed. It presses in ever so quietly, gently, and yet it is the all-encompassing. But more dominant acts of consciousness--not only feelings, but thoughts about things--can keep unseen, unknown, the ever-present background to every moment.
There are moments that may serve as windows into it, or doors of perception, if we should but attend. It is steady and sure, but our attention to it is fleeting at best. But moments arise when we may wonder, “Why did I remember that right now?” or “Why did that thought occur to me?” I find myself often asking such questions, because I am puzzled by the sudden and unseen arrival of memories or thoughts into consciousness. They just show up to the party, so to speak, seemingly uninvited guests. These are not intrusive or obnoxious guests, but puzzling, curious reminders that every mind is immersed in a reality far greater than one can conceive, or know, or understand. It goes on, whether we attend or not. It is here always. One sees no beginning or end, but recognizes that it is, and that everything else, every moment, every being-thing, is as it were a little piece of wood floating on a vast and unfathomably deep ocean.
Is it the case that it moves one to think certain thoughts, to explore in some directions rather than others? Or more essentially: Does it come to consciousness in one’s consciousness? Is it pressing to be known, to be recognized, to come to consciousness in the consciousness of a human being? Is man the being in whom it gains clarity, luminosity, awareness?
In truth, I do not know. But I sense a pressing into me at times, a very gentle movement of a kind of spirit into spirit. But it is not “a spirit,” or anything, or a being. I do not even want to call it “God,” or “Being.” It simply is what it is, unlimited and mysterious, ever-present. It may arrive with the dawning of morning light; or in the first awareness of fresh love; or a moment when insight is given, and one begins to understand anew, or more clearly.
“Write.” “What shall I write?” Let it emerge into consciousness if and as it wills. Do not seek to force it in any direction. Allow it to speak, as it were, simply by being what it is. No name is needed, just quiet attending. It is far too vast for any consciousness, and yet it can illumine, and become illuminated in the process of one’s free cooperation. “I did not ask for this.” “No, but you can let it happen, or refuse to attend, and prevent its coming to mind.”
Here and now it presses to discovery, and yet it is always present, and forms the entire matrix, the womb, as it were, in which all else comes into being and passes away. Perhaps it was here before the gods came to be, before the starry heavens, before plant life and animals arose. Perhaps the gods are expressions of it, or manifestations of it to us, I do not know. “I do not know much about gods...”
Words can reveal, words can obscure. Perhaps words do both at once: as they reveal something, they also obscure, eclipsing from consciousness what is yet unseen, unthought, or unspoken. And that is why, or one reason why, consciousness must return again and again from words into the undifferentiated light-darkness, into the mysterious presence of it. “Let it be.” Return to the surface and to the depths. In-between we have words, and words reveal and obscure at the same time.
And yet, it brings forth speech in human consciousness. It presses on and inspires, moves one to break forth into song, into words, into dance, into love. It presses, invites, and we may or may not respond. The question arises--I know not from where--”Who are you, LORD?” The answer to Moses remains for me a pointing to, an indication that it ever remains beyond the knowable, even beyond god: “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh,” “I AM that I AM.” All words, all names, fall short, and a responsible human being, a responding consciousness, needs to be ever-conscious of one’s profound ignorance before the mystery of reality, before it, before the divine abyss.
***
Begin anew, ever anew. Let go of the sides of the pool, and venture out in deeper water. Or leave the shore behind, and launch out into the deep where you know-not-what awaits you. Creatures of a day, we long to know and to be known, to love and to be loved, but the greatest adventure is to venture forth, to leave one’s home, even one’s self, and follow the pull into one-knows-not-what. It beckons, it draws, it pulls: one may follow, or refuse. “Qui incipit amare incipit exire.” “He who begins to love begins to leave.” What is left was passing away; what one enters into is never exhausted, ever fresh, alive with more than biological life. Words are failing me, because no words are adequate to it. And yet we make the attempt, aware of our relative dimness, and ever-missing-the-mark. Our task is to venture forth. “Not fare well, but fare forward, voyager.”
***
Moses is hungry, so I will give him an egg. But I need to return, to let it arise into consciousness, if and as it wills.
***
It arose into consciousness some years ago, when I was nine or ten, living in Hawaii. Standing in the backyard to our home, my attention was arrested. I looked at the sun above, and thought, “It was always here. It was here before me, and it will be here after me.” And I thought, “It has to be, but I did not have to be.” That the sun “did not have to be” is not the relevant matter. The thought about the sun served its purpose, as I became aware of being a passing part of a mysterious whole. It moved me to consciousness, to a loving awareness, and to a feeling of joy and gratitude for being alive at all. “I did not have to be.” And yet, there it was, here I am.
Why does one become conscious of it here and now, and not at other times? What allows it to come forth into consciousness? Is it ever coming forth into consciousness, even forming consciousness perhaps from moment to moment, and yet one does not know it? For an unknown reason, Hamlet’s words come to mind: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” Indeed, philosophy is “love of wisdom,” and it is ever incumbent upon love to be aware that it does not know well what it loves, but must seek to know more, to know better, to know more truly.
Why now? Or why not now? Where has it gone? To what has it receded? Why do I not now sense it, or see it, or feel it, or know it? Ah, it is far too vast and too vital for my partial awareness. “Do not fear, little soul, for it cannot go away, but is ever present, known or unknown.” It moves me to seek, to explore, to wonder, to write.
It is the issue. Beyond all knowables, beyond everything or being intended by rational consciousness, there is the mysterious whole in which each and all are immersed. It presses in ever so quietly, gently, and yet it is the all-encompassing. But more dominant acts of consciousness--not only feelings, but thoughts about things--can keep unseen, unknown, the ever-present background to every moment.
There are moments that may serve as windows into it, or doors of perception, if we should but attend. It is steady and sure, but our attention to it is fleeting at best. But moments arise when we may wonder, “Why did I remember that right now?” or “Why did that thought occur to me?” I find myself often asking such questions, because I am puzzled by the sudden and unseen arrival of memories or thoughts into consciousness. They just show up to the party, so to speak, seemingly uninvited guests. These are not intrusive or obnoxious guests, but puzzling, curious reminders that every mind is immersed in a reality far greater than one can conceive, or know, or understand. It goes on, whether we attend or not. It is here always. One sees no beginning or end, but recognizes that it is, and that everything else, every moment, every being-thing, is as it were a little piece of wood floating on a vast and unfathomably deep ocean.
Is it the case that it moves one to think certain thoughts, to explore in some directions rather than others? Or more essentially: Does it come to consciousness in one’s consciousness? Is it pressing to be known, to be recognized, to come to consciousness in the consciousness of a human being? Is man the being in whom it gains clarity, luminosity, awareness?
In truth, I do not know. But I sense a pressing into me at times, a very gentle movement of a kind of spirit into spirit. But it is not “a spirit,” or anything, or a being. I do not even want to call it “God,” or “Being.” It simply is what it is, unlimited and mysterious, ever-present. It may arrive with the dawning of morning light; or in the first awareness of fresh love; or a moment when insight is given, and one begins to understand anew, or more clearly.
“Write.” “What shall I write?” Let it emerge into consciousness if and as it wills. Do not seek to force it in any direction. Allow it to speak, as it were, simply by being what it is. No name is needed, just quiet attending. It is far too vast for any consciousness, and yet it can illumine, and become illuminated in the process of one’s free cooperation. “I did not ask for this.” “No, but you can let it happen, or refuse to attend, and prevent its coming to mind.”
Here and now it presses to discovery, and yet it is always present, and forms the entire matrix, the womb, as it were, in which all else comes into being and passes away. Perhaps it was here before the gods came to be, before the starry heavens, before plant life and animals arose. Perhaps the gods are expressions of it, or manifestations of it to us, I do not know. “I do not know much about gods...”
Words can reveal, words can obscure. Perhaps words do both at once: as they reveal something, they also obscure, eclipsing from consciousness what is yet unseen, unthought, or unspoken. And that is why, or one reason why, consciousness must return again and again from words into the undifferentiated light-darkness, into the mysterious presence of it. “Let it be.” Return to the surface and to the depths. In-between we have words, and words reveal and obscure at the same time.
And yet, it brings forth speech in human consciousness. It presses on and inspires, moves one to break forth into song, into words, into dance, into love. It presses, invites, and we may or may not respond. The question arises--I know not from where--”Who are you, LORD?” The answer to Moses remains for me a pointing to, an indication that it ever remains beyond the knowable, even beyond god: “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh,” “I AM that I AM.” All words, all names, fall short, and a responsible human being, a responding consciousness, needs to be ever-conscious of one’s profound ignorance before the mystery of reality, before it, before the divine abyss.
***
Begin anew, ever anew. Let go of the sides of the pool, and venture out in deeper water. Or leave the shore behind, and launch out into the deep where you know-not-what awaits you. Creatures of a day, we long to know and to be known, to love and to be loved, but the greatest adventure is to venture forth, to leave one’s home, even one’s self, and follow the pull into one-knows-not-what. It beckons, it draws, it pulls: one may follow, or refuse. “Qui incipit amare incipit exire.” “He who begins to love begins to leave.” What is left was passing away; what one enters into is never exhausted, ever fresh, alive with more than biological life. Words are failing me, because no words are adequate to it. And yet we make the attempt, aware of our relative dimness, and ever-missing-the-mark. Our task is to venture forth. “Not fare well, but fare forward, voyager.”
***
Moses is hungry, so I will give him an egg. But I need to return, to let it arise into consciousness, if and as it wills.
***
It arose into consciousness some years ago, when I was nine or ten, living in Hawaii. Standing in the backyard to our home, my attention was arrested. I looked at the sun above, and thought, “It was always here. It was here before me, and it will be here after me.” And I thought, “It has to be, but I did not have to be.” That the sun “did not have to be” is not the relevant matter. The thought about the sun served its purpose, as I became aware of being a passing part of a mysterious whole. It moved me to consciousness, to a loving awareness, and to a feeling of joy and gratitude for being alive at all. “I did not have to be.” And yet, there it was, here I am.
Why does one become conscious of it here and now, and not at other times? What allows it to come forth into consciousness? Is it ever coming forth into consciousness, even forming consciousness perhaps from moment to moment, and yet one does not know it? For an unknown reason, Hamlet’s words come to mind: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” Indeed, philosophy is “love of wisdom,” and it is ever incumbent upon love to be aware that it does not know well what it loves, but must seek to know more, to know better, to know more truly.
Why now? Or why not now? Where has it gone? To what has it receded? Why do I not now sense it, or see it, or feel it, or know it? Ah, it is far too vast and too vital for my partial awareness. “Do not fear, little soul, for it cannot go away, but is ever present, known or unknown.” It moves me to seek, to explore, to wonder, to write.
