Writing on life, memories and purpose.
When I look back on the memories that bubble up inside; some of them imagined, many of them exaggerated, few of them bearing any resemblance to the actual reality; they nevertheless make up who I am. They are intrinsically mine; and for as long as I choose to be defined by them, they define me.
And in generations to come, only fragments will remain anyway; snatches of memories and stories, reduced to quips and anecdotes told by surviving grandchildren and great grandchildren who may never have even met me.
But, this isn’t a reason for despair or sadness. The meaninglessness of life is also its great joy and magic, for when we let go of the need for meaning then all is truly revealed to us.
These memories aren’t really personal either; just the images that accompany the unfolding of a soul in the realtime afforded by life in this dimension.
That little boy who was so scared; the awkward and anxious teenager; the depressed adolescent; the husband, the father. All petals on the blooming lotus that is consciousness experiencing itself, and, on the odd fleeting occasion, being aware of that. And the petals will fall and the flower will shrivel, but their very existence has been enough to change the whole Universe forever.
Nothing more needs to be done. There is no striving worthwhile. No goals to attain. No status to strive for. There never was; that was the great misunderstanding. We were always perfect, we just didn’t know it. The truth was hidden in plain sight. And to think of all the energy, all the pain, all the hurt spent searching for something we always had and could never lose anyway.
All these moments that crash and collide inside of me are just the debris and clutter of my own personal big bang. An inward and then outward explosion caused by the misguided belief of separation; and then every possibility of that imagined treachery plays out before my eyes and overwhelms my senses; drugging me with its intoxicating temptation and relentless distraction.
But, what a cunning trick we have played on ourselves. Duped and doped into the dark night of egotistic stupour, only to wake in the morning with the universal human hangover; trying to remember what you did, why you did it and with the promise to never, ever do it again.
And yet silently, patiently, lovingly we await our own return. The clouds of the mind part, even momentarily, to reveal ourselves back to us. Ahh, there we are, the clear blue sky.
And then, in that moment, those memories, those fragments, appear to be just weather; nothing more, nothing less.