It occurred to me (through a friend) that my last post, "until you find an angle or two", was written in an overly cryptic manner, reflecting a context that was sensible only to myself. I decided to write a commentary on it because I feel that the concepts are more universal than the writing was.
The main theme of this post is the often cyclical journey of spirituality. We can only hope that we spiral upwards.
How can is act decisively in eyes that stare form other angles?
Is refers to what is, the steady flow of day to day life. In my mind, it carries an aura of mediocrity, of existing in a comfortable bubble. Day by day, week by week. There are no decisive steps, no grasping of true conviction. Therefore, Is can be swept away in a myriad of different thought processes, stare through eyes from other angles.
Why does is always assume there is time to spare?
A continuation of mediocrity. It is easy to assume that we have all the time in the world. With every passing day, we lay our heads to rest; always assuming there will be many more tomorrows to make up for what we didn't do today.
There is no more time, there is no more spare.
Kind of a wakeup call. True spirituality doesn't live in the future, it is right now, or never.
Despair is, is it not? Unless there is time, In which case is can continue watching on the sly.
If judged with urgency, we realize with despair that Is is the world of unreality, the precious hours that slipped through our fingers. At this point we can either confront it (next part), or we can ignore and forget it-believing the misguided notion that there is time to spare. The relative world will filter back in almost unnoticed, on the sly.
Is, the pretense past. Or is the pretense past? In any case (and at this point is can only hope) the scraping is enveloping the desolate heart; appealing to, or emoting into that rugged gatekeeper of childhood; morphology of dreamscape.
This refers to the next stage (at least for me) of despair, after I have realized the Pretense of Is (maybe, Is is tricky, hence the statement and the question). It becomes a very intense, tumultuous, emotion time for me. The scraping of the desolate heart. It reminds me of mortality, and rotting flesh, which to me is all tied up in the landscape from which I came and to which I will return. It is tied up in memories of my childhood, which takes on a mythical aura. The landscape of my childhood has morphed into a dreamscape.
Unexpected, unassumed, and unheralded. That waffling film is being grasped. Being, with the orthodox vantage, sees is clinging, but whatever. That's and was.
Being in this case refers to a spiritual state in which all directions are merged into the eternal present. Where there are no longer any angles, only the oneness of God. The waffling film refers to that thin veil that blinds our eyes, and it is being grasped, crumpled into our fists. There is still a scent of Is, which is clinging, but it is insignificant.
Being...absolute clarity, unflinching vision, pure spirit, nowhere and no chance to run. Unless you find an angle or two. Is, is it not?
The world of Being is very hard to withstand. It requires constant and continual vigilance and self-sacrifice. It is easy, even when you are maintaining that state, to fall off your guard. To let songs slip into your head that seem perfectly rational, and little comfortable, and are very interesting angles that can take root and be justified with time. Is, is it not?
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