I made a mistake the other day. I rushed an action. Then, mistake number two: I failed to arrest myself, to investigate the incident. Oh, what a hallelujah moment to finally get down to business, to see all of my sourness flood the exits, to watch ego convulse like a speared eel.
Freedom is freedom from something. It is a subtraction. The less of us there is, the freer we are. As men, our goal is to become nobody in particular.
Freedom cuts across the cultural grain. In the West, solutions are typically proposed in terms of more, not less.
“Be nothing. Know nothing. Have nothing. This is the only happiness worth having.”
Statements like this stun the mind. We are like the bird that flies into a window.
It sometimes happens that men who are awakening will tell me, “I don’t know who I am any more.” It is like the moment in a funeral service when I find myself crying.
The feeling of well-being, sometimes called the joy of being, is autonomous; it does not depend on our life situation being one way or another. Sometimes it arises to illumine a circumstance that is, by every measure of the mind, a terrible constraint or a grievous loss.
Well-being is uncaused. This shimmering convexity is innate, inhabiting every individual to the fullest possible extent.
Yes, actually, I did. I insisted on it. Consciousness needs a vehicle. And here it is. Here I AM is. Consciousness produces a body to make itself vivid, to express its illimitable exuberance.