The liquid-eyed poet John Keats, dead at 25 from tuberculosis: “There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.” In the same vein, from an old hymn often sung at funerals I presided over when I was in religious life: “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, / Bears all its sons away; / They fly forgotten, as a dream / Dies at the opening day.” No-one and nothing stay the same. Not even for an instant.
We are fascinated by our bodies but of “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower” we are mostly incurious.
When something changes in the outer world, psychic automatism compels us to judge it as bad or good. On the inner level, all changes are potentially helpful. Any judgement is misleading and irrelevant.
I haven’t changed until there is less of me, until I’ve discarded something.
Change is an inner activity.
A change of consciousness requires no effort.
As you were, gentlemen.
Be still, again. Re-lax.