Death and dying are not the same. The noun is not the verb. Anyone who doesn’t die in a flat second does experience his dying. Some dying are painful and long, others are peaceful and short. I have been enjoying my dying for
some years now. It’s a nice leisurely walk toward the unknown. Once dead, we all get bury in a common grave. There is absolutely no individuality in death. Obliterated by the same unknowing were Buddha, Christ, Genghis Kahn, and Joan of Arc.
This morning pain woke me up.
I didn’t reject pain’s wake up call.
I said,”Let’s talk, I want to hear
what you have to say. I want to know
who you are.”
We sat in silence face to face, eye to eye.
Neither of us blinked. Soon, there was no pain,
no I. Just a sensation floating in space.
It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good. It was, and then,
gently, it was not. The void was alone. That’s all.
He sat under the tree, his legs crossed in the traditional
posture— his back erect, hands folded on his lap, eyes staring at the darkness, not a muscle moving. He had been there for hours.
During the day, he had seen the patterns of light and shadows change and move over the thick carpet of grass, and the forest creatures come and go.
With unwavering attention, the sage heard the sounds flow like
an unseen river, sometimes cheerful, sometimes menacing. He
saw the rim of the sun touch the distant trees, he saw the air
grow misty, and then, without a warning ,like a tiger pouncing
on it’s prey, the night swallowed the forest.
There has been awareness of these things, but it did not belong
to him. He was not the one being aware. Awareness simply was, and in awareness, all things appeared and vanished, unimpeded, blissfully. The burning pain in his legs, the weight of tired muscles pulling at his back, the thirst, the hunger were there, happening in the distance like the croaking of frogs which didn’t disturb the silence. The night, the pain, the buzzing of insects happened in a clear bubble of alertness that objected to nothing.
Then, over the eastern horizon, above the blackness of the
distant trees, the darkness trembled with a touch of blue and
the morning star rose. Today, it was like no other star could ever be. It’s light was love, its sweet fury, irresistible. His mind
opened under this light like a flower. And, then, the flower grew,
expanding so rapidly that it left him breathless. His mind
swallowed the night, as the night had swallowed the forest.
When the sun finally rose, it rose within. There was nothing but
himself and he was nothing. The Void breathed peacefully,
letting all things be in perfect emptiness. There was no sorrow,
no suffering, only the bliss of non-being in which everything was.
A) The appearance of his quarry and its
nature and habits.
B) The best trap to use.
What does original mind look like?
It doesn’t looks like this or that. You know the beast by it’s proximity. Everything changes when it approaches: the forest becomes quiet, a pervasive silence descends on all things, a soft, ethereal light bathes the forest, an indefinable sweetness fills the brain and love is kindled.
In hunting original mind, quietness is the only trap that works because the quarry is the most elusive and shyof all creatures. Immobility of body and mind are essential. Deep quietude is required. Not the quietude of somnolence, but a completely alert one. True mind is drawn to this quietude as if by a magnet.
Only this complete not doing of body and mind is required.
As the beast approaches, greed will try to jump on it. This is a fatal mistake. You must remain indifferent, as if nothing is happening. If we are absolutely still, the creature will jump on our lap. When it chooses to leave, let it go. Don’t try to
capture it, or find it with your thoughts. Looking for original mind in ideas is like beating a drum when looking for silence.
It will take several visits before the creature makes a nest in your head. You must be patient, quiet, and alert.