I woke up in the middle of the night last night, as I often do, and, before my viscerally-held self-concept could come in and claim what was happening, what was happening was just happening. There was no past or future. There was just the simplicity and completeness of this, exactly as it is right now, exactly the same as it is for you.
Cindy had just arrived home from an event and she had accidentally woken me up. I don’t remember all the details of what was said, but there was definitely the use of the word “cornucopia.” I just asked her what it was: apparently I was telling her about the cornucopia of boogers that flow forth from my nasal cavities. Perhaps I was just half-asleep, suffering from what we call hypnopompia, the state of consciousness that transitions out of sleep.
The thing is, without any context, what is happening is just what is happening. It’s never overwhelming in itself. It’s always beyond manageable; it’s always whole, and complete, and deeply satisfying. In that infinitely creative crucible of wholeness, it’s possible to concoct stories about how life is too scary or complicated or overwhelming.
The mind seems to create these stories about the past and the future, about how it’s going to be too much, or about how something is going to go wrong, or about how we will be punished or shamed or embarrassed in the…
