All is love There is no love

 

you and all things exist only in this dream of imaginary separation, which includes time and space... can you find an outside or edge to what seems to appear? is there an outside or beyond? is there an other, better, more or next? can you grab something and remove it from what is going on? where would it go? if there is no outside, is there an inside?

so perhaps you can agree there is no other better more or next as they have never been found... maybe you will try just to accept what is going on! but are you separate from this symphony of perception and its inseparable recognition? if you are not separate from this how can you accept or reject or surrender to it?

some will say just go with the flow... just allow thoughts and feelings to happen...
but is there someone separate from this flow of life... when no banks can be found?

all these suggestions merely promulgate the feeling that there is a someone separate from life, separate from this passion play...
yet I cannot suggest that you do or not do anything or nothing as I know that there is no you to do or not do these things, or to try to not try... the seeker is the seeking, the longing for certitude for understanding.. and there is none...

the belief in a special place a goal perpetuates the search for this thing called enlightenment... but you will never find it as it does not happen to the imaginary persona, how could it if part of the shift in perspective called enlightenment is recognizing that there is no self?

this really has nothing to do with you...
as the sun seems to rise all by itself and the sky is not held up with scaffolding and the clouds are not held up with ropes... life does indeed seem to happen all by itself, with no separate parts or separate moments or events...

reaching out... for another moment for another event for another person.... may happen but it can be also be known and felt that there are no others, no self to reach...
and yet, here I sit, reaching out to you
wanting to hold you
love you
and tell you that you are unutterably beautiful just as you think you are



are there roots of love
can they be cut?
are there edges to love
that can be released?
is it your heart blossoming
or is it you?
the blush of morning
petals falling
vibrant reds and dusty yellows
sighing

where are the chords of wind
playing across the open fields
tossing forgotten melodies into your heart

what is this resonance we feel when the wind echoes our heart songs?
what is this wondrous longing
this love
that has no center or edge
without it I am not
I am not any more real or false than yesterday's wind songs
and that beautiful ache in my chest




sky hands 
reach down
into your sky heart
kisses itself
in endless sky




how can a dreamt character see that she is not real
what dissolves the belief in this illusion
when it is all illusion?

the dream of enlightenment
is the end of the belief in the dream
of enlightenment

there was never a girl tip toeing along a timeline from birth to death
terrified to fall off
terrified to reach the end...
terrified
and longing to lose herself in love

cloud castles shattered by reflections of sky
seeing through the charade of windmills
slicing the sky with its sweeping blades
was there only endless sky?
was there anything solid and unchanging?
any thing real?
any reality at all?
anything to hold on to
any hand to hold... 

light saber of unknowing pierced my heart
never and forever collided
and not even nothing was left
nor anyone to know it

somehow out of the ashes of the known world
wind swirled its empty dress
and a dancer appeared

I am the fantasy of a girl who fell into sky
and found a placeless place between heaven and earth
soaring through endless blue and walking on earth
walking through love as love
in love with the dream of you and me
and we



reflection in the mirror has no one to catch
tears lose their wetness
heart sobs
broken open for a decade
(when was it not...)

river of love has no direction
flows through this canyon of echoes 
dissolving graffiti no one painted
treasure maps fall into broken lines
going no where
coming from no where
meaningless patterns enchant the lone traveller
she has no goal but knows the ocean awaits...

she dances with her reflection on the towering canyon walls
and waits for the music of a heart resonating with hers
how big is the night
after all 
here is a lullaby of crickets
and a moon


night is its own echo
ripples of silence pour through my heart
my heart is an empty song
listening to itself
singing of beauty
singing of love
singing of nothing
really

echoes of silence
echoes of song
echoes of moonlight in the garden pond
caress the plum leaves floating
still red
still my heart breaks
for nothing
for everything
for no one
for everyone
this is love beyond all ideas of love
feeling deeply without edges
borderless we fall into each other's hearts
into this
very
kiss



I am this pirouette of thought
a spiral without beginning or end
there is no stage upon which it arises
nor emptiness in which it dissolves

we are this dance of words
stories spinning around each other
no essential essence nor fluidity....
a magician's tale pouring through its own enchantment

the thought stream has stopped demanding answers
as to where or when or how or why this dream of echoes
this mirage of reflections seems real enough...
surreal, real, un-real... there are no lines between here and there
there is no here
no there
no in between
no everything
no nothing

doves fly up from the frozen ground
startled by the neighbor's cat
amazing how words paint my world
and me
I am spell bound
words form my imaginary lines...

inlines
outlines
stretch and dissolve in this dream of awakening
yet they never were...

many say there is nothing happening
is there a thing called nothing
are there events called happening
or non happening?

all we can ever know is this marvelous dance of separate things and events
this sensuous aliveness...
is it happening
or not?
is there a dancer outside of this dance who can know it
or not?
are there separate things outside of thought
what is knowing?
what is what
when is when
why is why....

all these songs paint the dream
there is nothing in between the words
or underneath them
words are thought
thought is thought
what is thought?
can you find it?
can you find a place outside of thought...
or is outside a thought

grey cat runs up the old ladder we have beside our fence
doves return
my fingers slide over the keyboard
and this splendid enchantment continues to sing itself



we are all dying...
yet it seems only some recognize this...
death gives life its sparkle
life has no meaning nor non meaning... no purpose nor non purpose...
I never share this with my friends!
nor do I share that there is no hope...  for most personas life wihout hope ...without that imaginary next, would be devistating... 

but as you are dying... and we all are, arent we?, it can be seen that there really is no next... there never was an other or better or worse ....or more or less.... life is indeed super complete in itself... including this full passion play of emotion... life pouring into and through itself in an inside out spiraling...



it is as if a character in a story died,,,, long long ago... and yet, there seems to be someone here although no one nor here can be found... all the other actors in this passion play seem to assume that I am here, and that they are, but it is like an echo of a life, more direct more intimate than the taste of taste, as well as something far far away... loooking through both ends of the binoculars at the same time....
like an unsung melody drifting across the desert telling tales of mountains and rivers and tall tall pines, and a raven
perched
on a rocky crag, wind ruffling his feathers, as the same wind ploughs down the canyon and into the desert where foreign languages are spoken in this surreal mirage....
and there is simply utter enjoyment of the sun and the palms and the drifting winds
and love which seems to appear in this dream of a dream
super saturating everything and nothing... love seems to be the essence of the dream of knowing this is a dream
its all love, yet there is no love at all



there are those who say there is not enough love in the world... who measures it who decides what love is... its all sky in sky.... measureless substance-less... words seem to appear and cloud castles... form.... dissolve.... what is sky without sky....
what is a what... nothing can be said yet everything seeems to arise is the saying.... here is some of this,,, there is some of that... where is the line between this and that,,,, only two letters separate the words, our brains seem to create these lines.... notice distinctions, separate reds from oranges... how is it that the brain no longer seems to believe in these imaginary lines, i do not know and do not long to know,,, it appears that this happens or not.... just like life awakening happens all by itself... like love and cloud castles and endless sky




people seem dismayed that I study and practice diet and lifestyle intervention. that I have interests other than theirs... they do not seem so angry that I crochet... or cook, or feed birds in the garden. it does not fit their template of what an enlightened person should be... they feel I should be disinterested in worldly affairs... 

there is no one who becomes enlightened, there are no enlighened people... there is not even nothing... yet the dream of no longer believing the dream, or the dream of enlightenment, is not the end of the dream.... 

knowing there are no clouds and endless sky is not the end of clouds... knowing love is made up is not the end of love..... there is tremendous caring but without hope,

and when my clients tell me their pain is gone, there is a heart rush.... and when people ask me what they can do to get rid of their pain there is a heart rush... and when I see you there is a heart rush....



would you say that the stars know where to shine their light, or that rocks know where to fall.... would you say that the sky allows clouds... and that the rain knows when it hits my window... or would you say that life is all of a piece... of itself so... no actual separation can be found outside of this thought stream made of learned shared words... there is no do-er, only a story of avalanches crushing houses,,,, what made the snow fall... no source can be found....

no things can be found outside of the story... without this imaginary separation ... there is no awarenes of awareness... no awareness of this aliveness... no knowing that you are...

without thought there is no separation, no things to be separate, no things or non things... the universe that swirls inside your synapses can never be known or touched by the galaxy of memory that swirls me into my unique universe.... 

it is only these shared learned words that seem to create the universe we share... only in this worded world can we meet, only in this virtual reality can we discuss reality, and beauty and fall in love



This dream does not arise from no-thingness; it does not arise from emptiness. it is emptiness itself, and it cannot be captured or held.



all words are defined by other words... thought weaves the web of words, the yarn, the story, the magicians tale, the enchantment of you and me and we

there is no untangling the web of thought as web and thought are thought...
the illusion has no other... it seems to conjure itself...

unknowable is a word
wordless is a word
unutterable is a word
they do not point to any things...
but seem to leave the mind
hanging
how I used to love the word infinity when I was a kid.... I would say it over and over and fall in love with the unmeasurable vastness of unknowing.... like floating in an edgeless sea of dreams.... warmth of utter wonder washing through me.... 

and I am this wonder and there is no knowing what wonder is or I am... 
no things can be found, as there is no hand, no heart separate from the illusion of separation to hold them... 

sparrows and doves cover the frozen ground as the feeders are empty
I can feel their softness and warmth through the window...
where my reflection lingers
melting into this morning song




it is sublimely bittersweet that we exist only as each others echoes
parantheses of lovliness forming and dissolvong their own curved hands

winged transparancy of memory soars through itself
there is no void nor fullness
no one to be free or bound
doves
float
to the frozen ground
sometimes a feather
and the wonder of it all



self is desire... the movement of 'our' lives...  the brain seems to, with objectification, create a world of things and events and a self in the center of the swirling... it is a beautiful and very useful part of evolution... the fludity of memory creates the fludity of imagininings of an future... with imaginary separation these imaginings paint pictures of possibilies... of manipulating the physical world to create conditions more favorable for survival...

this story requires a constant telling as without thought, all things and events and you simply disappear... the 'blank spot' must be filled in all the time or belief in the story may falter.... and somehow it is the brain that believes in the story or not...   I do not know how that is the case, but somehow the feeling of solidity or realness of this thought stream that the brain produces is felt or not... 

the recognition that all things including the self are its own mental fabrication may happen, but it does not appear to help with the survival of the species and seems to be very rare.



A broken heart your only tether 
To a song that sang you long ago




echoes within echoes
there is no source to sound
or silence
time a beautiful illusion
space an enchantment where all and everything seem to swim

it is all a dream
there is no dream
this is a magical tale of dreamt dancers believing they are the dreamers
the thinkers
the feelers
the do-ers
the dancers
falling in love
losing love
living
dying

and you may seek a way out of the dream... out of this messy humanness, all those feelings and thoughts and happenings you do not like
of course, that means all the things you do like will have to go
like love...
all you have ever loved are just as imaginary as you

can you find this past where you were loved or lost love
can you find this imaginary future when you will find enlightenment or love or ....fill in the blank....
can you find this ever elusive thing called a now?

this illusion of separate people and things and space and time cannot be transcended... this worded world this thought dream of echoes of echoes... has no edges, can you find an outside to all this? how about an inside...
all and everything is included yet there are no things...

and what do these words mean? what is a what? what is meaning, other than a feeling of something being true or solid... can you find any solidity, any permanance?
you know deep down that there is none... yet you long for it, cling to this belief that there is a thing called truth... yet you have never found it...
you just know there is a next
although you have never ever found one
you are the looking for these imaginary things
yet you know they are imaginary...

somewhere you know this emptiness, this utter complete devistating emptiness
you have been running from it your entire life
has it really been chasing you or is it you?

you long for a place of comfort... well enlightnement will not give you that
it will not give you anything
not even love
it will strip away everything you believed all you thought you were
the good and the bad
and everything you thought you were not
it will dismantle your entire construct of what the world is like
and what it is not
even gravity...
space
time
love...
it is the end of your world and a you to have one

and yet
why do sages sing about this love
this amazement...
it seems like after this evisceration of all and everything
there are new eyes
simultaneously seeing the world of things
and knowing they are not
it feels like love has subsumed the world of things
it is felt deeply
somehow
that we are each other
although we are both utterly imaginary

it feels like life is a love song
whatever it looks and feels like
this love song simply sings itself
knowing I am dreamt
and there is no dreamer
is beautiful beyond belief and imagination
beyond truth and fiction
beyond any ideas of beyond

love beyond any ideas of love





all is love
there is no love
some people think I mean there is an unchanging substance in which all and everything arise... that is why I tried not using that word for many years, but I could not find anything better....
it is like falling in love with love as love...
but there is no one falling...
wind sliding through wind
sky written with sky
is love its absence?

all is illusion
nothing is illusion
there is no illusion
nor anything called all
or nothing...
the dream is the dream
there is no dream
there is no absence of dream

wind soars down the canyon
beauty rips my heart into songs
the flute is made of breath
no one breathes
there is no air
no space
nor lack of space

flock of doves at the feeder
some float to the frozen ground
I can feel their softness and warmth
my hands feel their roundness
one left a feather on the window
and flew away