The best predictor of the future kicks its chubby legs in the cradle of the now.
Memory is not primarily a mental function. Memory constitutes as the body. When the body dies, memory dies too. Memory is weight. Excess of memory, excess of weight. Babies are what an absence of memory smells like.
We see nakedly when we see without thinking about what we are seeing, when there’s no screen of mentation separating seer from seen, when for a moment the subject/object split is healed. Babies and other new life forms see nakedly. First, their faces open as if they are seeing something miraculous. Then they smile. If the new life form is a puppy, it licks our faces with a giddy avidity. They are thrilled, I tell you. Thrilled.
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.
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.