Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

The authentic breath of being

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This is just me listening to the waterfall of life. I know nothing…….

No ONE has the answers.

As a collective we carry the truth, the light, and the freedom from fear. As singular, we do not.

Anyone claiming to know the true way, the right way, or the answers, is in illusion.

It is impossible to know the all, unless the one is tapped into the whole of humanity. In this case, this one would have clarity so expansive that the limited verbiage chosen, and filtered through the mind and fingers, would be likewise limited in perspective; in so being, words would be broken open like eggs and leaked upon the souls as yoke, shedding golden essence and drippings, the richness of nutrients craved in such degree as to lead the innkeeper of knowledge to expand in search of more.

If words from a person, claiming to know the truth, cause the other to feel subjected to judgment, ideology, fear, or defense, then the person who speaks, in proclaiming his wisdom as factual, is trapped in falsehood.

Disbelief runs rampant amongst followers who allow the ego-leader to take the front and show the way. Disbelief that suffers within the soul, as if the awareness itself of falsehood is representative of reality—a living, breathing substance taking in the bearer that witnesses the wrong doings.

To put it lightly, the one spreading truths that he claims are truths, is the one doing more harm than good.

An effective and beneficial being will claim first, and foremost, that he knows nothing. That she is just as much a part of evolution as the rest, constantly affected, molded, shifted, and subjected to immediate and recognizable change.

Essentially, change is inevitable.

In addition, the more one comes closer to the core of self, the more she pulls away.

For the closer one enters into the state of perpetual-ness, and continual metamorphosis, the more one tends to cling backwards in hopes of complete and solid form.

This too is inevitable, a natural response to the human conditioning. In this state, a being is likely to pull back in intensity, a pulling which leads to the act of clinging to an ideology or doctrine. This found ‘knowledge’ then becomes the limb in representation, a singular isolated branch to grasp that can further serve to dig one’s way deeper away from the growing roots of collective wisdom.

Here is where the clinging begins.

What is taken in is indeed grasped by the scope of senses, a scope perhaps deemed justly inadequate, but nonetheless the means in which life is interpreted.

The casualty of this time is the inability to drift passed the limited scope of reason and the elevated grandeurs of attention placed on the avenue of perceived discovery: that being the calculated and numbered senses.

Each sense is part of the limited body. Each sense is therefore limited. Yet man makes claims that in his obvious limitations he can, through the vigorous use of logic and sensory intake, manage to interpret the labyrinth of life—one man claiming to understand the whole.

Nature has not gifted the singular anything; for beneath nature’s umbrella, within her donned compass, no singular exists.

It is man who negates the concept of union and devises plans to elevate the status of non-existence of whole.

Until he begins to forge for not the sole intention of one, but for the sole intention of all, he shall remain obliterated in agony and ill-will, by his own intention.

Few have gathered enough of the whole to reach the stage of fortitude, of service, of the fullness of letting go of one for the cause of the all. It is a difficult, though manageable in task. And shedding the definition of words, and meandering past the peelings of concepts, one cannot even call the giving of self a task. For once intermingled into the whole, the giving of self is the only plausible escape of isolation. Indeed, the task previously rendered infeasible and difficult by the masses, is the exact escape-route to peace.

How blunder-filled the world is, as the singular tries to build upon the singular, expecting satisfaction in self-growth and self-elevation. How high must one travel to feel this celebrated sensation of ‘good?’ How high must one climb? How many must follow? Believe? Validate?

In claiming to know the answers, one naturally has clung to the singular, to the I, and to that which has been called various names.

Ranging from fearless ideology to radical uproar—all forms of self-righteousness reek of havoc. When one is most certain of self and the way, when one is pointing adamantly to his truth, then that is when the others must run and dodge. Not out of fear, but out of recognition that the poison of unreasoning man is the most advantageous to those with like venom, and the least deadly to those on the path to self-destruction.

For to dive into the illusion of assumption, to think oneself closer to truth than the rest, is to pull oneself up by the straps of illusion and set self down in the mist of confusion.

There is no one. There is no better. There is no right or wrong. And yet more and more sacrifice their livelihood for the agony of stagnant unmoving illusion.

Here is the cyclic death they speak of in journals of ages: the path of no doers, the path of the idle-minded wandering through the same desert repeatedly, in hopes of finding the forest-stream. To them the desert is alive and real. To them the answer is just beyond reach. To them, if the feet keep traveling, then truth must be found. And still they drown in the illusion, whilst dying of thirst. Dutifully at odds with the truth they have created.

How brilliant is their folly, to in theory trap oneself in the struggle of one, when the one is nowhere to be found.

Here is the man interrupted. Stopped where he once was whole, intersected and dissected by the casual interruption of spirit quest, and set on a path dubious in degree, in which he becomes one with the all-of-nothing. Here is the faulty path, the only fault, if fault be found, in the unraveling over and over of a schematic plan of escape.

How much easier to erase where one is standing, then to continually build upon illusion. How much easier to pull out the foundation of false security, and expose self once and for all to the rugged elements, to breathe in the desert air, to gasp at the absence of liquid, and to decompose this self.

And what better way than to drag the weary questing-one out of the illusion, and into the arms of all, into the authentic breath of being.

For WE are not characters gifted with the insight of finding the answers.

We are the answers.

We are the beginning and the end.

We are the ink that scribes,

the tree that bends to form the parchment,

the river that bleeds from one end to the next,

recycling into the nether-lands.

We are the all. And still we cramp our beings into the dynamically compressed sentence of: I am.

As if we could live in such confinement.

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