Do we know if we give too much or too little? Have we a clue if that acquaintance thinks you we I am fabulous or a drag? Frankly, I can’t seem to guess whether that man, that woman thinks I am his/hers, or not. I have no idea. Teachings have taught me not to look not to act for the fruits. Work hard work with love but not in expectation of the outcome, the result. So do we know?
I realize that I look not and wind up seeing no reflection of myself at all.
I have read I have heard I have listened volumes about knowing the Self, spending endless hours engrossed in the thoughts in the thinking in the feeling in the virtues of being self-aware. But in being so self involved, so true to sensation of presence unfolding and following the snaking of ego, I have failed to gauge the results thus not knowing at least one of the facets of self: self as seen. Is it important?
And so I am left with not knowing myself by not knowing the impact I have upon the world right outside my window, under my own roof.
Today I step away and investigate the whole process. I learn about myself by watching myself, as a second party might. I see myself doing things for the entertainment, for the drama. I watch myself, I recognize myself, I am currently self-aware. Do I tangle in and tell myself to do the right thing? Am I then becoming the prisoner a child reprimanded by my second party awareness? And who watches their movements? Mind one and mind two.
I watch my behavior as if someone else is acting the drama. I laugh at my ego flashing in a movement; I raise a brow at an indeterminate undercurrent in a conversation; I am surprised by the truth behind my face. Not always but yes the truth does stand horribly rigidly at attention: frozen, in fact, so still so quiet not to be seen so much becoming a part of the backdrop. Invisible to my spiritual eye.
Concurrently I see a reaction of a conversational recipient and I become perplexed and lost between the words and the facial expression, are their words reacting to my unspoken undercurrent undermined truth? Is their face reacting to my wraparound words? And vice versa. The conversation of a conversation. Too bad that my hidden truth might be ill-communicating with their words, and their truth communicating with my conspired words. Or perhaps happy confusion confounds and creates humor and lightness and preposterousnous abound. And thus yet nothing is to be seen of self from outside self as the reflection is never clear never still always flux in me in you in us.
Softly then, quietly, winding back down from confusion from layers of mind, trying to know who I am from outside from echoing I go back within and I soak in my favorite simple distillation: when I don’t shine from within, when I don’t when you don’t when we do not trust our place in the world and honor and appreciate our Truth our Self our soul, we end up a collection of borrowed behavior. Expression, sentences, configurations of thought, stolen borrowed begged from someone else, whose expression we liked enough better than our very own. We become “normal” alike someone like everyone else. The real characters are the individuals who speak their own mind, yes inspired and no, not copies, wear their own style, think their fresh thoughts, and act upon them. Run their own show. I want to run my own show. And not be at the mercy of a cast of invasive expressions. Granted, if I owned my own theater, that is.
And thus onward, moving flowing falling rising in to and with grace and in human friction, motivated by this that or the other thing worrylessly may I simply be just inspired and not conspired me and not as I see me in you. Or him. Or her. Or you. Settling down now from mental flurries, lovely tangles to just just just
me, here, this breath.
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