This is the march towards yourself. This life, it always leads to the invitation to become more of what you already are. Silence sits behind the stream of thoughts called me, silence that blossoms, eventually, if we focus on it. Silence that is a joyful little giggle on the edges of awareness. No cause. Just a remembrance that everything is okay. Always.
Distractions distract. Mind is a distraction. Every time I touch the silence, I laugh at how consumed I have been with the unreality of my dysfunctional thinking machine. If we were to just “let go,” as they say, life would run so much smoother. When I rest in the silence–sometimes just out of a deep sleep, or in a deep meditation, or a spontaneous moment of welcome relaxation–I see how my thoughts create my reality, how I live in a net of concepts that I have unknowingly allowed to define the borders of my existence.
It’s so hard to describe, but I’m starting to get the feel for it. There’s the “me” that I usually think I am. And then there’s the space that I can move into that sees the “me” as a thing, a strange tangled energy, a powerful gravity pulling at attention like a hungry dog imploring food. It’s a never ending self-reference…focused around the letter “I”. None of this is new, it’s in book after book, but wow, to recognize it…that’s something else.
I asked the woman teaching me a certain meditation technique today about healing..how Western psychology’s ideas of healing relate to the unconditional silence that pervades every moment of life.
In the West, we look at the mind like we look at a car. Something with parts, that can be tinkered with and rearranged and serviced. Something that can be “hurt” and “fixed.” And this is true on one level. We dig psychic wounds based on traumatic experiences that rearrange our belief systems to confirm whatever that “bad” experience seemed to tell us about ourselves. And then, somehow, we have to go in there and fix that. We have to disbelieve something, some story, that is buried beneath a festering, untended wound.
But so often, we forget the one ingredient that makes this possible: Love. We try to go in with logic or talking or whatever, and we forget that this wound will continue to ooze until we bring the healing salve of unconditional love to it. There can be no psychology without love.
And what my friend and teacher told me today was that tinkering on that level is just that. Tinkering. And that the silence is the place from which all healing comes. The place of that little giggle, the subtle joy, that has the ability to salve any wound we have ever experienced.
What is a belief system, regardless of how powerful, in comparison to an all-pervasive infinity of placid well-being?
I don’t know where I’m going with this. Just some thoughts about no-thoughts.