Who’s to say that this life isn’t concurrently an entering into selfhood, and an ongoing impulse to naturally return to this true one-thing-we-know-we-really-are? Two inclinations happening at the same time. There are stops and starts–“I am this separate person.” Yet in the next step, “What was I thinking?” and then a brief a reprieve from the role, the falsity of it all. It seems that this becoming and unbecoming, pretending and clear seeing, has always been going on. There are constant rents in the fabric of reality, constant and obvious red flags, telling us that things are not as they appear.
But given that it’s ALL consciousness, all the time, it appears as if events, people and circumstance conspire to make a stab at becoming–someone in the middle of something. It’s not what we do, it’s what consciousness does. Life, the play, is a kind of drunken stagger between the real and the unreal. A long binge of intoxication, punctuated with moments of stark sobriety.
Life is an involvement in the cult of the unreal. Some deprogramming seems to be required, that’s all. This is what is meant by the words “you were never born,” only thought-created, or imagined. The idea that there was some kind of separation, that a person for one reason or another starts seeking, and then wakes up, or doesn’t, is ass-backwards. Taking on a role is what consciousness does, is the tendency, but right alongside is the doubt, the unignorable pull to remember what’s really going on. Eventually, awareness simply starts to wake up to Itself. The Prodigal Son simply grows weary of the pig sty, and turns toward home, like the snow goose in late fall, or so it seems.
From this perspective, there is an appreciation, or an apperception, of what A Course in Miracles calls “a tiny mad idea.” There is an idea, but no person to own it. Consciousness, awareness is just doing its thing, putting on a majestic display.
The show is over; it was a good run. Great grief, over-the-top exaltation, laughter that bends at the waist and soon turns to tears–it’s all part of the Grand Production–the propensity to experience! out of this emptiness. An agreement made by angels that fall, loving mortality. Time to go home, sit on the front porch, and watch the clouds and weather patterns come and go. Sound and fury; sturm und drang. Bravo! Author, Author!
“Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.”
― William Shakespeare, The Tempest