One of the things we like about dogs is they don’t give advice.
The human personality is an edifice to the past. It is the conditioned self, the sum total of all of our experiences and of our reactions to those experiences. It’s why some of us are left-handed, others of us stutter, and why Glen Campbell did what he did while drinking like a fish and being unable to read a note of music. We haul this accumulation around with us. We think it is who we are, but it isn’t. It’s just mental and psychological stuff, a moldering pile of bellicosities and beliefs, of preferences and aversions, of memories and habits, of suspicions, traditions and worry patterns. It is good, now and then, to drop this congealment. To draw a breath. To see a bird without naming it.
The personality is a set of conditioned behaviours based on past experience. It is an accretion of memory; it functions as an individualized protective device. As personality dictates, some men habitually fight, other men fawn.
I am not my personality. The snail’s shell is not the snail.
Personality is not for improving. It is for dying to, for sloughing off.
I love when I am vulnerable, when my heart is outside of me.
Don’t know. One thing’s for sure: I’m not who I think I am.
There are two kinds of children: little and big. Little children are sweet; they’re spell-weavers. Big children are absurd, even dangerous. That’s why Jesus said, “Unless you become again as little children, you will not enter the awareness.”
A little child does not have an ego—that is, a mind-based sense of self. That is why we love little children, not for something they have but for something they don’t have.
Awareness is the absence of ‘me’ and ‘mine’. These are false ideas and best gotten rid of.