I don’t know.
The blue sky rests above golden green trees, birds whistle and flop across the wind. Earthbound, my eyes float upward and reach out toward their traceless flight. I don’t know.
Mind is emptiness. A twig snaps, I turn to look. I say, “I love you,” and a friend says, “I love you,” back. Just like neurons sparking each other across synapses. Connected, arising from each other.
That’s why I don’t know. Well, that’s one reason why. Since everything’s so intertwined, so “Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey,” as the Doctor would say (Doctor Who).
I don’t know because nothing’s clung to. With each moment, the heart lets go of one beat to make room for another. Each feeling is like a flash of lightning, each thought a glimmering bubble on the breeze.
Which one am I? Am I the space it moves through? The featureless page that hosts each angle of ink, letting them form into letters, letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into stories. Letting the stories play out, letting them shine and dim, letting them cascade across the fathomless deep.
Am I this body, this temporary fusion of matter and energy that gives and takes until it can’t take anymore so that it only gives? If so, then reality is my body, because there’s nothing new in me, and nothing bound. That give and take is constant, perpetually placing me on both sides of my skin.
Am I my blood that would wreak like roadkill if it was spilled and sat there congealing for three days? If so, then why do we seem to leave our blood behind? There are oceans in our blood. Rivers, streams, tears of joy and sorrow. There’s sweat from a day of hard work and nights of passionate love. Morning fog and evening clouds. All of that’s in our blood, with each sip of water.
Am I the rolling green stretching out toward the horizon, the prowling clouds and piercing blue? Maybe, but are they green and blue for you too? I hope so.
Am I the past? These memories that flood through consciousness seemingly at random? If so, then who am I when the flood evaporates?
I don’t know. But I feel. Or, rather, there is feeling. I wish I knew, that’s what darkens emotion—that wishing. The only wish that doesn’t conceal a poison barb is the wish to be free. All other desires get stuck in emptiness’ if-then process, those falling dominoes that craft each experience we have, including ourselves.
And even the wish to be free turns sour in your mouth if you chew on it too long. It’s really just something to keep us busy, keeps us from swallowing a bunch of other crap we don’t need.
Now that even that’s gone, I don’t know. I have no past or future, and without them, I have nothing telling me what I should think about the present. All the words of wisdom I’ve gathered seem like someone else’s dirty laundry they asked me to wash. The motions of ritual and liturgy feel like make-believe time.
Maybe the only thing I know is that it’s all about communication, give and take, providing shelter for each other. Refuge. The teachings say that I’m already Awake, but what if that “I” isn’t something that exists in isolation apart from “you”? Awakening is something that shines between us, shines when we both show up at the same venue. It can’t be given or taken, but it has to be given and taken.
With the void on all sides, it takes another’s light to see that there are no sides, and there aren’t two lights. In that light, we see ourselves in others, and others in ourselves. As the wind struggles to move what has no form.