You are so loved — without limit, without condition.
You are safe. We’ve got your back.
You don’t have to carry it all. We’re here to help.
I hear you trying to protect and warn us. I am listening.
You were never alone. We are with you, always.
You don’t have to brace for the worst anymore. We will meet the day together, gently.
I love you beyond measure. Go well, little one.

Endless.

The hardness of the so-called hard problem of consciousness lies in our unwillingness to give up the mythology of materialism. We have taken a powerful model of the world too seriously. That’s it! We have confused the map for the territory.

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In a famous koan, a novice monk approaches Master Zhaozhou.

Monk: “I have just entered the monastery, please give me some guidance.”
Master: “Have you eaten your rice gruel?”
Monk: “Yes”
Master: “Then wash your bowl”
This precipitated an awakening in the monk.

There are many things one can take away from this koan: the compassion of the master in asking whether the monk had eaten, that enlightenment is possible without the need for special experiences, the washing of one’s bowl as an analogy for letting go of attachments. Here we will focus on the simplicity of the command, “Then wash your bowl”

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If there is such a thing as“the fabric of reality”, perhaps it is so painfully obvious that we overlook it. Consider these criteria: it must be the same now as it always was, hence it is nothing new; it must be everywhere, hence microscopes and telescopes get us no closer; it must be inherent in everything, hence favouring certain things does not help; it must encompass both subject and object, hence apparent separateness must be dissolved.

Bare witnessing fits these criteria. The mere fact of experiencing. Just this.

Pascal famously said “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” On an individual level (and, after all, humanity is merely a collection of individuals), this can be regarded as both diagnosis and prescription. If you cannot sit quietly in a room alone, you have a problem. To resolve this problem, practice sitting quietly in a room alone.

Now, this does not mean all problems can be solved by sitting. Rather, the definition of a problem is something through which you cannot sit quietly. “For this, I must get up!” But truthfully, how many things that disturb the inherent peacefulness of just sitting need to be solved? How many empty problems do we construct to avoid sitting quietly in a room alone? Indeed, many would rather receive electric shocks than just think.

Cultivate a mind that is at home with itself and many “problems” will simply disappear.

There are no ultimate answers because there are no ultimate questions. The universe asks nothing. It does not speak. We speak and project the activities of questioning and answering onto reality. Since the universe does not speak, it has no answers. It is we who make answers out of what we encounter.

Sometimes so-called ultimate questions sound like they make sense, e.g. “What is the meaning of life?”, but the presupposes a singular, objective answer. Objects don’t speak, only subjects speak. Meaning is not something out there. It cannot be discovered, only constructed. It is a product of minds.

All answers are partial.

The last post suggested that confusion only happens at the relative level of mind. We place artificial distance between ourselves and the universe when we seek to know it. That distance vanishes when we rest as it. For complete clarity, we must give up mind.

One powerful practice to achieve this clarity is Tilopa’s Six Words of Advice: don’t recall, don’t think, don’t imagine, don’t examine, don’t control, rest.

Let go of mind. Rest as awareness. See what happens.
(Samaneri Jayasāra has a wonderful guided reading here)

Here’s a little haiku inspired by Wittgenstein:

All open to view
Bringing itself to an end
Nothing to explain

In Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein posits that “philosophy simply puts everything before us, and neither explains nor deduces anything.—Since everything lies open to view there is nothing to explain” (Anscombe translation, 1958). This last phrase felt very Zen, so it seemed apt to write a haiku!

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Objectivity is an abstraction, obviously. We only ever have access to direct, subjective experience. Even the stories (theories, concepts, interpretations) we tell about those experiences are themselves experienced. So don’t you think it’s weird that we favour that to which we never have direct access – namely, objective truth – over that which is – namely, subjective experience?

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