perceiving is rooted in emptiness
I followed the streambed down the mountain. Large boulders glistened and, in some places, the moss was several inches thick. Lush, inviting. Laying down on a large boulder covered in thick leaves and moss there was a cathedral of patterns, light and shadow, amongst the leaves. A paw paw, with fruit the bears had not yet found, was directly overhead. The smooth roundness of their shape against a fragment of blue sky was achingly beautiful.
To see beauty but not allow mind to grasp, to long for ownership, is a deep secret of freedom. To remain purely present, without any contrived notion of the ‘now’ – without any concept spiritual or worldly – is to dissolve in the perceiving action. Where does this perceiving come from? From a vast of pure mystery. Where does it abide – in a display of pure mystery. A mystery that is beauty – lived in body, feeling, mind. A beauty flowering in spontaneous action unstained and free. The origin of all art, the urge to beauty’s creation, comes from moments of such perception.
All perceiving is rooted in emptiness, non-identity, but conception so swiftly claims ownership that the intrinsic beauty is crushed by the aggression of secondary, always fretful on some level, states. When the mind has re-learned its natural state then perceiving is simply allowed to function within space and beauty is known again. Recognized (re-cognized). Perceiving itself is known to be the only deity. What is perceived is the wisdom mandala of delight, and the mind, which perceives, is the Nothingness State of no-identity.
Following the stream on down to the river there were two men fishing in a small boat. Their cooler of beer was open and both were smoking. The acrid smell of pot wafted across the breeze. The narrow constriction of mind’s dysfunctionality is a cause of pain and torment to the body. Most of life’s energy is spent trying to medicate this feeling of torment. Once lost within the rounds and rounds of identification there is no solution to the problem within the problem. The space of the ‘me’ is doomed to stagnation much like eddies of water trapped by a fallen tree and accumulating debris and pollution.
Behind me the rich moss life of the woods was filled with silence and sound. Rhododendron were beginning to bloom. The sound of running water interrupted the radio music from the boat and invited play. A bed of moss awaited and the possibility, if this lay very still, of seeing the bear.