Sitting in the stillness this morning, a single tear plummeted down my cheek.
Mind is an exceedingly industrious storyteller. Memory creates an ‘I was’ narrative; imagination constructs an ‘I will be’ narrative. Simultaneously, like a mad samurai, it slices the present into good, bad, doesn’t matter.
A therapist’s first and pre-eminent responsibility is to see a man as he is, not as he takes himself to be.
Krishnamurti: In the seeing is doing.
We do not see anything as it is. We see everything as we are. It is an em-bubbled existence—private, personal and contradictory. Eventually, the bubble pops. Now, what happens when that happens?
Death is the falling away of everything we don’t need—our traditions, beliefs, habits, hopes, memories, worries, fears, resentments, five-year plans, medications, opinions, cultural associations, club memberships, loyalties, animosities, calculations, the voice in the head that interprets, judges, discriminates, rejects, invites and analyzes.
This falling away is already happening—as I write this, as you read it.