Awakening is Like Falling in Love

Did you write this, Chris? I dig it.

Now what?

Another fire is immediately, almost simultaneously, sparked in another place.

So why does the fire calm?

And why is an ember left over, rather than ashes?

Hmm... I like this poetry stuff.

After the initial burst of passionate clarity, the fascination that can't be escaped from, the warm open wonder that sees magic in everything with effortless ease, the shocked certainty that words can never contain or express the expanse of this... after that phase, can we learn to appreciate (with whatever degree of intention is needed in any given moment)--- can we learn to appreciate those qualities, and take responsibility for appreciating those qualities (clarity, openness, wonder, freedom, love, spontaneity)?

That gentle appreciation can become a quiet breeze that kindles fresh warmth from humble embers-- without the expectation of dramatic flames (though those can surprise us 'again for the first time' in any moment, if we practice this gentle appreciation).

Falling in love becomes something deeper, something less dramatic, but more reliable--- being in love. Passion needn't ever fade completely, but trust and friendship become more central-- in fact, if they don't, then the passion probably will fade completely.... Each phase has its own virtues.

LOVE! [your poem, Chris-- and also, generally...]

Something that happened today, sitting with one of my teachers:
We were chatting about this and that; he had lit some incense on the
table in front of him; he was backlit by bright morning sunlight coming
through the window behind him-- and something like this happened. Only
in 4-D... At some point, I was in the middle of the event, a
dragon-dancing skein of visible air.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIQ4lEaiO9I&feature=related

Maybe something stirring up from the deep? A deepening or something? Sometimes this open-ended awakening business is just such a weird trip.

I had a meeting early this week and I knew it was going to be tense. In such cases I used to plan contingencies and strategize so as to avoid certain outcomes, but this time I just couldn't bring myself to give two shits about that stuff. I didn't pay attention until I was actually there and then everything was just fine.

-cmarti

While I don't think it is a good idea to have specific detailed expectations for the results of practice, if what you described above happened to a person more and more -- that would be a pretty good result I think. To be able to just concentrate on what is actually going on NOW without stress about the past or future is a great place to be.

http://www.aroencyclopaedia.org/shared/text/n/nine_bardos_ar_eng.php

‘Instantaneous ordinariness’ is the fruit of the gYo-wa bardo.
Instantaneous ordinariness is the moment when continuity is destroyed. As soon as continuity is
destroyed, continuity appears again as the continuous moment of ‘Great Time’. One
senses
continuity again, but ‘that which is continuous’ is empty. One arrives at the non-dual
point of
realising the one taste of continuity and discontinuity. This is the essence of the
tha-mal-gyi-shé-pa bardo: simply noticing death – and being born as the next
moment.

-- it's a thing that can happen...

-- it's a thing that can happen...


-kategowen

lol

Chris, I appreciate your description of your experience. I've had similar, and the passing thought that maybe I should be concerned, but I cannot be. Thanks for sharing.

I appreciate your description, as well-- that's why I referred to the bardo teaching. At one point, a few years in, I was noticing something very similar: how distinct and discontinuous each moment was seeming-- like beads flying off from a broken necklace on a spinning dancer. I was down visiting my friend in San Francisco, a different world in every way from my place in Petaluma; I was on the bus going home-- another unprecedented, completely different experiential set; I was home in Petaluma, but how that seemed had been subtly changed by what happened elsewhere; and it went on like that: everything morphing continually and my perception being equal to registering the 'newness' as well as the objects.

It wasn't too much longer before I encountered this part of Aro teaching, which includes a description of a deliberate 'bardo retreat' that encourages perceiving these discontinuities. When it happened to me, it seemed very interesting and possibly significant, but I had the advantage of having not known about, expected, nor encouraged it-- so it was very fresh and powerful.

Your description is inspiring, Chris. Thank you for sharing. I don't think I've experienced this quite to the level you're describing. If I have, it's usually brief, and during sitting practice.

What's happening with me lately is different from what you described, but not unrelated to your poem at the start of this thread (at least not for me). I'm going through another period of emotional sensitively, not unlike what occurred for me during Winter of last year. It's like the heat in my heart-center get cranked way up. There's a sense of aching vulnerability, and it's very bittersweet. I'm enjoying the way it makes everything I encounter more vivid and alive. I'm not enjoying the associated layer of reactivity, which is sensitive to criticism and even subtle rejection (whether real or imagined).

It's weird how we can spontaneously open, whether we want to or not. In these situations, practice is like grace. In fact, I was thinking about this last night before falling asleep. When these seasons of hightened emotional sensitivity come around, I sometimes wonder whether or not it's "normal," and whether or not it's something that needs to be "fixed." But, really, the only way I could really consider it abnormal, or even as "illness" of some kind, is if my reaction to it was adding so much suffering that I could no longer function. But that's just it - I can funciton. I can probably say it better... It's not just that I can function, in a grin-and-bear-it sort of way. Rather, it's that in spite of the arising of difficult emotions, I'm still OK. I find this is remarkable. And that's what I mean about practice being like grace. The more I'm able to hold the intensity life brings, the more workable my life is.

I guess a common thread between Chris' post and mine is that we're both describing practice beyond states and stages, at least as they are commonly emphasized by so many online dharma guys and gals. I love that we spend time writing about what it's like when the rubber meets the road.

... It's not just that I can function, in a grin-and-bear-it sort of way. Rather, it's that in spite of the arising of difficult emotions, I'm still OK. I find this is remarkable. And that's what I mean about practice being like grace. The more I'm able to hold the intensity life brings, the more workable my life is....


-awouldbehipster

Jackson, that's really beautiful. It reminds me of how my teacher told me quite early in my practice - when I first had an experience so intensely agonizing I thought I couldn't bear it - that who I actually am can contain everything. I assumed he was being encouraging. A long while later I had an insight and experience of this that made me realize he wasn't just trying to comfort me, but it was actually literally true. I wrote in my journal around that time:

"... it occurred to me how many times Alan had said, in the midst of the most awful times, that I had to remember that I could contain everything. And now, with this sense of boundlessness, I actually did contain everything. I always thought he was just trying to be encouraging, not meaning it literally. Every time I sat I felt this sense of rushing outward, infinitely, as if there were no end at all to "me." (a few days later...) I kept encouraging myself to be with everything, but I was so afraid I might not be able to bear it. I was afraid it might just go endlessly deeper. I reminded myself there is no need to bear anything. Stuff has no weight and takes up no space...(a few days later...) When I returned home I sat on the back stairs in the fading light to rest, and meditated there. I felt so infinite, everything was radiant and clear in the most wondrous way. My third eye vibrated like a tuning fork was pressed against it. Everything can be included, I thought. The most dreadful, awful things are equally included."

Since I am not usually in such an state of heightened ecstasy as I was during that period of insight, I often come back to the pointer it taught me, of including everything. If I feel some discomfort, can it be opened to and included? Yes. Always. And what happens then? It takes up no space, is no burden, is empty, radiant. The shorter versions of the pointer: "this too" or "include, include, include" or "just as it is".

PS - this is indeed the most wonderful place for discussions, and I am grateful that you and Chris started it.

Oh, Chris, you're so smart...