(This is Part 4 of a series. Go back to Part 3.)
What we see at that point is absolute meaninglessness, because we're not giving any credence to any thoughts that contain "meaning." All is illusory, all is nothingness, all is devoid of meaning. And it doesn't mean anything that it's meaningless. No, it's completely meaningless that it's meaningless. And this is neither "bad" nor "good," though it is strange until one gets used to it.
Or we could say the opposite. All is now suffused with meaning, not in some mental sense, but in the immediacy of it. Paradoxically, one is more available to life, more in awe of it, the sheer miracle of it. One is seeing it directly, not blinded by the sacred beliefs about it, not blinded by the feelings and sacred beliefs that coalesce around the identity.
And there's no "high" about it, except when there is. It's the background in which all "highs" and "lows" and "goods" and "bads" exist, and in that sense it's just ordinary—ordinary life.
It's been said that is you pass a spiritual master in the street you will notice the powerful energy vibe as he or she is passing. But if we were to pass an awakened person in the street nothing would be noticed, because there's no attempt to project energy or power or "upness." Instead, there's a collapse into the recognition that reality is running itself, including the "me," and always has been.
In the dissolving of identity there is a direct perception that everything is one thing, and that there is nothing else and never has been. But even this perception is not sticky. One can also see the perception that sees everything as separate, though one is no longer stuck there either.
There's nothing anywhere to grab hold of, no source anywhere of some supposed "security." Indeed, it was the identity that wanted that. What exists now is not against security—it's not against anything—but it doesn't care about it either; it's not coming from there.
Neither does it care about whether one lives a "good life" or a "bad life." There is a strong tendency for life to be more fluid, to harmonize more readily, to feel "good" in that sense, but there's no guarantee of that since there's nobody around to care about it. Of course, there's nobody around to be against it either.
One's life turns out "this way" or "that way"—deep down it doesn't matter because there's nothing separate that would care about it. And yet one's life goes through the motions of life, perhaps the same as before, perhaps not. There is complete detachment as to outcomes, yet full engagement at the same time.
It even extends to life and death. There's nobody around to care whether one lives or dies, because the meaning that was sought in having an identity is already dead. Who would die? There's only one thing, and it's not going anywhere.
There is laughter at the illusory-ness of it all, the absurdity of it all, the absurd miracle of it all. There is also sadness because we see that there is suffering and pain and that pain hurts. We have only to stub our toe to find that out. And yet all suffering is also illusory too. Everything is suffused in paradox, yet everything is simple too, totally simple.
Above all there is love and compassion for all of existence, for all that exists, for life in all its forms, for the nothingness in all its forms—including "this" form. That doesn't mean that one condones hurtful acts, but simply that one has put down one's sword against the nature of reality. And instead, one notices a simple flower opening to the sky, or a cricket singing in the night, as the "meaning" of existence.
—jim sloman, 11.22.06
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