Happiness is continuity.  Self is continuity.

Not the quasi-continuity that is temporarily created and held together by thought – but the continuity that predates thoughts – the constant hum of reality itself.

From the vantage point of thought, reality seems dis-continuous and ultimately incompatible with individual continuity. But from the vantage point of reality, individual continuity seems to obscure a deeper sense of flow and union – a flimsy story of vulnerable continuity that overlays the real continuity inherent in everything.

It is the effort to preserve individual continuity that puts a filter or divide between observer and obvserved.  It is as if, in this division, we don’t get to go as far as experience wants to go.  When we look, we don’t get to know the feeling of the light going all the way through and hitting the very back wall of us – nor, when we look up skyward or a clear day, do we get to truly feel the fathomlessness of the heavens.  The effort of constantly projecting outwards in time our own lifespans is really about maintaining our separateness – so we pull back and withdraw from anything that we could accidentally fall into.  We know our small continuity is ultimately futile.

Our remaining life as we estimate it, seems to shorten and death draws nearer – and the problem of these two incompatible kinds of continuity becomes more pressing and intolerable until, in the midst of the crisis, something trips and all of a sudden we’re back in the larger frame again, in the great, silent space – as if we’ve broken through a membrane and are now back in a place of self that is no longer at odds with time.


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