I got a lot of positive responses to my off-the-cuff essay (they all are) about the notion that I am now enlightened. That I don’t have to consult anyone about it or listen to anyone’s else’s second-hand accounts of it. And you don’t have to listen to mine.
Who we are is a mystery and we live it consciously or mechanically. You cannot use language to wake up. It is not part of the package. I am smiling.
I just went to Marshall’s and T. J. Maxx. I love going there. I call it going to the bazaar. I found a bright red sweater for next winter and a delicious purple jacket that is warm as toast. I felt so happy with my “finds” at such reasonable prices.
For many years I felt just as much happiness cracking open a new book that promised enlightenment. But at some point my spirit rose up and pronounced them “just more detours” to my real and actual self. And if it wants to wear red and purple, I am just fine with that. I also let it acknowledge the fact that it will never know anything of a spiritual nature definitively.
Ye gods and little fishes, the proliferation of spiritual knowledge is infinite online. But I had rather ask myself what the truth is. And I answer sweetly, “Don’t worry about it.”
The leaves pushing forth from all the trees are not dogmatic about it at all, except for maybe the dogwoods. Ha ha ha ha ha.