From Cheenu. 4th sep2022
It is said, all that is yet to happen has already happened. That the future is but the past waiting to reveal itself. It is said, all that is past is but the future waiting to conceal itself. That all there is but the now, the moment that holds in itself the powers of revelation and concealment. It is in this moment all of space, time and matter exist. What existed a moment ago and what is yet to exist do not exist in this moment. And yet, all that existed and all that is to exist are concealed in this moment.
It is said that all there is to know is already out there. That there is no such thing as new knowledge. Knowledge births itself over and over again in the minds of men, each time adapting itself to suit their perceptions, styles, and sensibilities. It shrinks itself to the size of a pea or grows itself vaster than the universe in a moment, depending on what men do with that moment. Some have wrought miracles, others have discovered great mysteries and yet others have created great works of art with that moment. Billions have frittered the moment when offered it.
In each moment, we walk across the chasm of ignorance from life to death to life across the rickety bridge of time. With each step, the bridge behind us dissolves into nothingness, revealing only the next step. At long last, one fine day, when there are no more steps to be revealed or taken, we pass into the yonder, perplexing those we leave behind. “I only wish she could have willed herself to take a few more steps,” they wail.
There have been men and women who have swum across the canyon of ignorance and reached the heart of truth in that moment that occurs before before time splits itself. Upon reaching, they gazed deeply into the soul of truth itself. Some went stark raving mad because it wasn’t what they had prepared themselves for. For truth isn’t meant for anyone but those with the gentlest of minds that bend like grass in a gale. It is said that the strongest of minds on seeing the truth are broken easily like tall, proud oaks in a hurricane.
Some of these men and women survived the seeing of truth. Only a handful were left with the courage to talk about it. Kapila, Vyasa, Krishna, Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad and so on. They were scribes, teachers, prophets and indeed parents of mankind. They came and they went. Their words have survived. For how long, who knows. It doesn’t matter because words are poor substitutes for truth. Words may disappear someday. But truth lingers on. And it will rise yet again in another era of men and women. Krishna, Jesus and Mohammed will emerge again in this new era. They will be known by other names but the truth they will bring forth is the truth that always was, has been and will be.
What is this unyielding truth, you ask? If it could be expressed in words, that would make words immortal. If it could be experienced by minds, minds would become eternal. There is really no way to get to it other than to shrink of all space into one place and to collapse all of time into a single moment where everything everywhere happens all at once.
It is said that this truth does not exist. It is existence itself. It is said that truth is not conscious. It is consciousness itself. It is said that truth isn’t blissful. It is bliss itself. It is the silence in creation that occurs between the death and rebirth of creation itself.
Om tat sat.
