Thursday, January 28, 2016

So Far, So Long

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
I once overdosed on a long and lethal diet of psychotropic drugs, and philosophy, leading to an attempted suicide, by hanging.
It was the single-cumulative effect of chasing the ten-thousand desires.

The abuse was a misguided sense of self-exploration, and over time, horrid habit. The philosophy was birth, death and the meaning of life. The consequence was disaster, as was the pursuit. Many perish, and some survive. The abuse becomes a memory, but the philosophy lives. 
Survival itself becomes life, and endurance the lesson.

Exploration seems brave, until it loses all its glamor. I wasn’t here to change the world, but neither was I here looking for a quick exit. But shit happens, and you wipe the stains. You learn and stop flicking the coin; heroism and cowardice are two-faces of one-coin. But I didn't know, and if you don't known the unknown, it will kill you.

I hung-on; literally, and woke-up, on a surreal-metaphysical plane. Reality was a blur, and confusion reigned supreme, with a burning desire for material attachment, and solid footing. An urgent attempt to regain a false identity I’d built and believed-in was the thaw. Not a laughing matter when you find the myth you’ve built is just that, a laughing matter.
The grass is greener in your head; cows graze and grow meadows, and every fixation-leaks.

My family and friends cajoled me back from the dead, and Leonard Cohen sang to me in the Bardo; as I hovered in a spacious limbo, free of gravity and unconscious of a physical body. A mind unaware of itself is attracted to whatever appears, and in that confusion, yearns to grab its own projections, like trying to merge and vanish into the mirrored-image.
As vain as it sounds; trying to grab hold of the mind’s manifold manifestations seems to be the defining human-key, and ultimately its only pursuit, no matter how hopeless the struggle.

In such a sphere, any external truth helps, even if only nominally. Knowing that, my grounded elder brother played Leonard Cohen’s Greatest Hits in the car’s stereo, as my father sat quietly in the back, chanting the Mantra of Guru Padmasambhava. But it was Leonard I heard. To me, he did not seem to be singing; rather Leonard was narrating the script of my life through his lyrical-songs. Thank goodness it wasn’t AC/DC, although an element of highway to hell sounds opportune. But it was Leonard, and the unforgettable gift of that golden voice that remains and reminds.

The universe spins to the unfathomable sway of small things.

Though born a Buddha, Siddhartha showed us that Buddhahood had to be unraveled; and isn’t life the very process of this unfolding? It seems mistakes are vital, even necessary, in righting all the wrongs, to keep trying to rise above the duality.
There’s no sage worth his peace who did not face and demolish his own terror. Sweet teardrops come salty. The world is not what it seems, and yet what you see is what you get. Water freezes, ice forms, and comparisons become useless.

So what happens? Nothing in a nutshell; yet everything in a glimpse. Cold rejection learns to warm up, and hot passions cool down. Resistance learns to accept, and acceptance practices equanimity. Live and let-live hopes to become an aptitude rather than an attitude.
You’re literally Head of the State of the Universe.

If a person is the sum total of all his experiences, the knot that ties all its loose ends come undone, and the most dominant emotion or sense or feeling takes over. Mine was unwavering attachment, and a sense of bewildering wonder. It seemed I was trying too hard at times to figure-out what was happening, rather than trusting the mind to manifest itself naturally. 
The urge to grasp was too deep and too vivid. You lose, the void wins. 

Letting go does not figure. A lifetime of discrimination boils down to a hardened idea of me and you; us and them. The unknown-other is the demon. The realms are evil. The devil has come alive. Hell manifests, and there’s no escape. Recognition is the refuge that’s been forgotten. Now that awareness has returned, one must resume it; remember it, setting reminders every day that as long as breath flows, and life lives, awareness must be cultivated. When the body breaks down and dies, the mind that has lived ignorantly tries to inhabit and revive the dead body wrongly presuming the body to be real, and really you. The idea begins to kill itself.

It’s a self-defeating task, wrought and wrecked with fear. The mind has forgotten itself, and in this forgetfulness, chases all its shadows. The mundane lives we lead is the dulled states of our own minds. 
A mind addicted to its objects is a mind lost in hallucination. Nothing has prepared you for it, yet it seems to pervade everything. Knowing you are lost is the key to finding the way back. But that does not dawn easily. The lock is secured.

I had my father, brother and Leonard in the Bardo; where his words rang like bells, loud with clarity, without being intrusive, yet accompanying the images rising in my reality; questioning, explaining, clarifying, and showing, where I had fallen short, and where I had overarched. Having them was infinitely better than not having them. Point is, will I’ve such luck again? I should think so, for if we’re still alive, we’re still lucky.
But we’re also dying moment to moment, day by day, night after night. How many times do we even remember? Ignorance is only blissful in hindsight; foresight warns you that there’ll be no such second-coming.

The driving force in such a mind is fear, of itself, and the instant duality it recreates. It is as you were a small mountain creek, frightened of all the waters in the swirling sea, yet flowing inexorably towards it. Having lived to relive the memory, I often recall the lack of inexperience in the experience; prompting me to refine my deluded sights of mind and how it matters. 
In the void that is devoid, a strong sense of relative identity brings only added weightage to a real divisive solidity.
It breeds disharmony, which breeds a disquieting virtual reality. The torment tears.

If no one wakes you from the dream, the nightmare is real. The room, and everything in it is non-existent. Giving up a non-existent self is the real exchange. Surrendering what you never owned in the first place seems necessary. The dreamer and the dream become yet another dream.  

I found myself trying to find an object so that I could form an identity. Life’s face was a blur, a hallucination, like waves, like rising mists, that I wanted to touch, shape and manifest. The idea of a separate self is so driven and strong that any dissolution is a threat. Yet I was dissolving, and the resistance became a struggle.
Not sitting on your bottom does this to your head. The sitting ass is the starting base. Legs that run must recoil. Arms that swing must rest motionless. And mind must mind the mind.

Life now takes on the humdrum refrain of a familiar soundtrack; with thoughts turning to changing lyrics, sometimes center stage, mostly in the background, playing the chorus. It sings of death and it sings of birth. You don’t choose life but here it is. You don’t remember but here you are. 
Its arrival from nowhere, yet here you are, and now you must be aware of the journey.

You take flight. You crash-land. Yet you relive. The voyage begun, now you learn to look out the window. Take in the sights. Let the driver drive. Trust the road. There’s no need, no call, to change, control, and redefine the universe.

I’ve had my doubts in the past, but this time the frequency jars. I’ve partaken in the conversation; I know it delights in the same repetition, if not in the same company. But it does not matter anymore; I know while we’re busy making a living, we’re also busy dying. And I know it’s not nearly enough to understand all of life; but you don’t have to.
When you’re trying to understand yourself, the wonder never ceases. In the end, soberness and addictions are just two-more different states of the same stateless mind. And maybe heartbreaks and breakdowns do help; in gaining a different perspective- like the man's song says, 'There's a Crack in Everything, That's How the Lights Gets In'.



Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

6 comments:

Linda York Leaming said...

I haven't read you in a while and that was a mistake.
So eloquent and full of great things. More please.
"There’s no sage worth his peace who did not face and demolish his own terror."
Peace and love to you.

Jurmi Chhowing said...

Thanks Linda; cheers/prayers

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