Читать книгу Opening the Door: Jan Frazier Teachings On Awakening - Jan Inc. Frazier - Страница 3

People have always suspected there was something more, something beyond. Something before, at bottom, a fundamental from which all else sprang. A primordial. Not just an idea, not something to take notes on in a philosophy class, but a gut knowing in the middle of the night, when no one else is awake. What is it? What is it? We all silently agree to pretend things matter — to carry on as though the world as we have laid it out, life as we live it, makes perfect sense. Is enough. But secretly we know otherwise.

Some of us came up with God. Some of us got stuck in despair.

However we deal with it, we are taught to ignore the nagging suspicion that a lot of what we do is meaningless. We are conditioned to put our faith in what we’ve been told to believe in: hard work, a solid sense of self. Love, as it shows up between parent and child, between lovers.

It is because of the sneaking worry that nothing would happen that nobody opens their mouth and says, Am I the only one here who has the feeling there’s more going on than meets the eye? I mean, what if nobody could find it? What if nobody had any idea of where to even start to look?

And still, there is this feeling that there is supposed to be more to life. There is always this elephant in the room, but nobody opens their mouth and says There is an elephant in the room. One reason nobody says it is that if somebody did, then others would have to allow as how they had the same suspicion. Then what? Nobody could live the same after that. Nobody could pretend anymore that what is supposed to matter really does. And what if somebody in that room said the next thing: Okay, let’s figure it out. What if the whole group of people there, who had just admitted out loud that they’ve always had the feeling there was something huge but not pin-down-able . . . what if they said, We’re gonna go for it, get hold of this thing, slather ourselves in it, wrap our hands around it, claim it for our own? Their eyes would all light up with the rush of it, the sudden possibility of something radical happening, something that would change their lives forever. Somebody would stand up and say, Come on, let’s get going.

What then? What if nothing happened?

This is the question: Why was I born? What am I about? What is my business here? The question is urgent, isn’t it? All the evidence suggests it won’t go on forever; the cemeteries are littered with dead people.

We keep ourselves busy to avoid asking the question. Why indeed was a person born? We must keep ourselves busy. There’s school, there are relationships, jobs, clothes, recycling. The sun rises and sets, rises and sets, and one day somebody puts the blade of a shovel to the earth and drops us in it.

Why indeed?

Many years ago somebody asked me what I thought my life was about, what it was for, and I said I guessed it was about writing. I meant it. I believed that to be the case. Well, it was the best I could come up with. (I had to say something.) A ridiculous answer was better than saying I don’t know.

But to even ask the question! For a person to ask the question of self: this is a window being opened. Why was I born?

Don’t rush to answer. There is no need to answer. Just ask the question. For now, that is enough.

Who wants to know? a person might say. Who is it that is asking the question? Who am I, anyway? Maybe that is the real question. Maybe it will dawn that who you are would be glad to let itself go. What a shock THAT would be. A relief. An actual relief.

Maybe the question isn’t Why was I born? Maybe it’s How can I let myself go? How can I lose the sense that my particular self is the most significant thing (even while the form of this self is still living a life)? How can I get so I can’t tell where I stop and the rest of the world picks up?

Now there’s an idea. Then, the beginning and the end of a life are minor points. It’s the almighty I that causes all the trouble in the first place, that gives rise to the creepy little voice that’s compelled to ask that overwhelming question, Why was I born?

The universe sings to itself. Amuses itself. Has no questions.

It has been snowing. The local universe has been snowing, piling up on itself, little bits of itself piling up on little bits of itself. Open your mouth full of questions and let it fill up with the world, and soon you won’t be able to locate yourself anymore. Just the world making love to itself, laughing itself silly. It never wondered why it was born. It didn’t have time. It was too busy being enthralled with doing nothing as a means to an end.

They used to put people in asylums for talking like this. The walls rang with hysterical laughter. They burned people for it, bundled them up with dry sticks, put a match to them. The fire lit the sky.