Coming Home

COMING HOME

This is timeless, deathless, eternal.

This is without equal, this is never-to-be-repeated, this is utterly unique and totally new, in each and every moment, although there are no “moments” at all.

This is empty of all qualities, even the quality of being empty of all qualities. And yet, this is totally full, pregnant with infinite possibility, possibility that overflows again and again into a world.

This is peace, but it is a volcanic peace, a peace which does not deny noise but embraces it fully, a peace which does not rest, an ecstatic peace that throws itself out of itself now, now and now.

This is completely unknowable, and yet it is filled with the knowledge of things, filled with an apparent world “out there”, in its infinite guises.

This is something that cannot be spoken of by anyone, and yet words are thrown out, day after day after day.

This is not of this world, and yet it is nothing but this world.

This is completely extraordinary, and yet it is as simple and as obvious as the sound of the rain splish-splashing on your rooftop.

Splish! Splash!

This is a wide open space, with enough room for an entire world, pulsating with a radical and unconditional love that will never be grasped by a mind locked in the search for something more.

This is simple, obvious, ordinary.

This is what everybody is seeking, but nobody can find.

And nobody can find this precisely because the one who searches for this is exactly that which apparently obscures this (although this can never be obscured, because it already includes any idea of a somebody who would want something more).

This is Jesus dying on the cross.

This is the Buddha seeing through all confusion.

This is the world falling away when two lovers embrace.

This is a mother cradling her newborn child.

This is watching an old man waddling down the pavement, and seeing only yourself.

This is your heart breaking at the sight of an old woman, her shopping bags full of groceries, struggling to cross a busy road, and finding yourself, without hesitation, rushing over to help her, because you have no choice, and you never did have any choice.

And this is realising, at long last, that choice is illusion, that you were never for one moment separate from this thing we call “life”, that we were never for one moment separate from each other; that no man is an island, that we affect each other in more profound ways than the mind could ever hope to grasp.





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