The sole work of the inner journey is the removal of obstacles. First among these is the small clutch of ideas we hold about ourselves. William Blake called these mental concepts “mind-forg’d manacles.”
Let’s not say that you have inoperable cancer. Let’s say your body does.
There are no secrets. Are you alone on Faraway Beach? The sand is a massed choir. The stones whisper to one another.
Where the appearance of a self stands in for the Self, there is a ceaseless striving for significance.
Not to indulge in pettifoggery but I AM is ageless. In other words, never born, never died. And the body? Well, that’s another story. A bit of a blip, really. Rounded upward, it’s 100.