Kite without a string

To be born as a human being is a unique opportunity to experience separation and limitation. Each person weaves his/her particular story and as such every individual is precious and a beautiful piece of the giant puzzle that is the universe. Eventually all of us will manifest our true potential. But at any given moment, there are hordes of people who are boxed in by false stories and leading a life of captivity and suffering. Ordinary people caged in by the dream of life, unaware of their true essence. This is the common man. I always felt a psychologist or a TA trainer or any therapist for that matter would lead people out of these nightmares and into the light of their consciousness. But apparently the focus is on supplementing one nightmare with a less daunting one. The mirage of “getting better.” So if one enters therapy or any “psychological program” under the illusion of being ‘x,’ you will be told how mistaken you are to be labeling yourself this way. ‘No, no, no, you are really only y. This is your new identity. Forget x, swallow y. You will come out all shining from the dark abyss you are wandering in.” This is the reality of many a training program or so-called therapy. Such a jolly circus of trading a walking stick for a crutch. Just a cursory mention of the fact that you have feet. Nothing on guiding people back to their true nature. Instead you are urged to focus on your shiny new crutch and count its holes and discard that walking stick because it stinks. Ya, it will feel good for a while. You are getting distracted. You have new hope. You feel like you are ‘making progress.’ La di la! You have gained ‘new insight.’ Meanwhile you are as far away from your essence as you ever were.

How far? Not even a second apart. You are your essence. You have just managed to put your attention on the moving patterns of your personality instead of easing into the background of your consciousness. It is so much more colorful than the ever-present substratum of existence. I am sorry, I digressed further than I intended. Let me guide you back. You, pure consciousness, have a ‘self experience’ all the time. By this I mean the experience of ‘I.’ A close analogy to self experience is the movie experience. The movie experience consists of the still background that we call screen plus the moving patterns that fall on the screen from the projector. Similarly, the self experience consists of consciousness plus the moving patterns of thinking, feeling and behavior that we call personality. At any moment, a majority of human beings are hung up on the moving pattern. Very few are aware of the still background. But moving patterns dazzle and hold our attention. We are captivated by the fascinating medley of thoughts and feelings that inhabit our mental landscape. In turn this shapes our response to the environment. The thoughts take the shape of an ‘I’ story. This is a bunch of thoughts that keep repeating in our heads – ‘I am Thehseen. I love biriyani. I hate papaya.’ and so on and on it goes. Mostly we are unaware of this process. Our attention has been so consumed by this mirage of an inner person that we become that inner person and act in programmed ways. These repetitive patterns of behavior shaped by earlier experiences are not appropriate to the challenges of the present moment. Hence our behavior falls short of our potential to act effectively on our environment. This virtual reality avatar then possesses the body and acts out its limitations. This very attachment and total immersion in the ‘I’ story is the cause of our suffering. The movement of attention back to the background of existence is essential to put an end to this. It is self evident that body, thoughts and feelings are constantly changing. Hence these belong to the realm of the moving patterns. The only unchanging part of us is consciousness itself. So take a journey into yourself. Know all that you are not. And what remains however improbable is your true essence. True in that it never changes. All the moving patterns can be observed. But the unchanging background of consciousness cannot be observed like an object. It is the subject itself. You can only ease back into your being (verb). Just be and observe your patterns of thoughts, feelings and behavior with compassion. This is the beginning of the end of suffering. Without knowing this dimension in you, you have nothing to anchor on. You were like a kite without a string. But now, remaining grounded in consciousness, you can explore your inner and outer world safely, discard ineffective patterns and procure new ones as you please. Secure in the knowing that you can never lose you.  

The reverie

The voices grew louder and louder. There were no gaps now. Spaces belonged to the soul. Mind knew neither stillness nor love. It churned out thoughts by the gazillion. The pauses were subatomic. Mind could not delve into such microscopic depths. The background of bliss was beyond detection. Fashioned from thoughts, there was the mirage of a continuous inner self. Such precious delusion that has enamoured every human! She couldn’t flee from its grip either. She eased into its familiar form. Every nook and crevice of it was comforting. Even the suffering was addictive. There was no escape from its inevitability. Millions had stumbled and fallen into the same abyss. Very few had awakened from its captivating reverie. The ones who did tried in vain to save the rest. But their efforts were met with disdain, even pure hostility. Some were crucified. Others wandered the earth and were condemned as ‘loonies.’ The virtual reality had spun its tentacles and its fascinating stories with such complexity that the web of deceit was now beyond escape. There were occasional flashes of sanity. These went unnoticed. Yet it did offer some reprieve from the unending pain of separation. Unity was a shell now cast upon the shore of life, an archaic relic that everyone shunned. To each, their own was the mantra on everyone’s lips. To compete, to divide, to fear, to control – these were the patterns that drove the dreamers. The awakened ones talked of the power of now. But dreamers shuttled from past to future and had no bearing on the present. Hooked to a constant feed of worries and anxieties, past pains and troubles, they meandered on in a haze. Thoughts and responses were now in a loop. None noticed the repetitive nature of it. Nor the preciousness of the moment. The awakened ones held their presence. Like lightening rods trying to save a collective burnout. But the voices were unrelenting. And the dreamers were hooked. Once in a while the suffering was so searing that someone woke up. As the momentum of the madness hastened, so did the frequency of those who sought to flee from its grip. These new ones would people the new earth. She however would be left behind. Because she caved in to the temptation of the abyss. She could not let go of the mirage. There were ample warnings. Her daughter was the first. But she did not heed. Now there would be no more opportunities for a while. For an eternity, she would abide in the darkness.

Tides

Millions of butterflies soared gently in the twilight of her mind. Relentless movement. Swish and swoosh. Warm, comforting. Unlike the people around her. Cold, distant. They too moved around swiftly. There was no pause. Stillness was her own. Frozen in her wheelchair as the world flowed by in undue haste. People were caught up in the web of doing. This to finish, that to plan. No time to just be. She had ample time. But her mind was just as busy. There was no rest there. Neither peace nor clarity. How could one exist without the other? Cute little babies, giggling while swinging to and fro. Then the darkness descended. She was drowning in it. She struggled to move her fingers. The mind and body were disconnected. There was no cord to pull her back into the realm of the living. She willed with every inch of her being. A small flutter of the little finger. This was precious. She was making contact. Words of euphoria waited impatiently to spill out of her mind into the vibrations of sounds. But they never escaped the prison of her vocal cords stiffened by Parkinson’s. A familiar figure appeared in the periphery. “Syndopa,” he whispered. This was the elixir of motion that this angel had come to administer. She opened her mouth and gulped the pill down. Redemption was near. For a while her fingers and feet would find their way out of their fetters. Desires could be voiced. Attention demanded. Her soul could manifest its authentic colours and paint heartily a vibrant picture in the world of people and doing. She could be heard. She could stir another’s heart and mind. Her thirst for life was indomitable. She was not willing to recede into the void. She could still make waves in the pool of life and land of the living. But one day, the elixir would cease to enervate her. One day, the waters of her life would become still forever. She wouldn’t think about that now. Not yet.