Me dit tacite? Non dans. Pas. In Portland, soon, the store opens and the merchandise pointing to New Age ways sells. This man walks and browses and prices. Should there be a meditation cushion, something for a quiet room, its price gets eyed.
The point to meditation, if I may tentatively say, is to remove us from the complex mental tasks that frustrate our physiology built for rest and only once-in-a-while immediate fright-resolution.
We butt against mental irresolvables. Against such nagging are constructed peace virtues. Simply to become aware of that which is immediately, naturally, happening around one's seated person. Noticing it all, but not 'rethinking' any of it. Catching the whole of it, but regarding it only for its passingness. Handling none of it, phenomenally noting the entirety of it.
Since internal legerdemain is our forte, breaking with it comes with great difficulty.
Work, love, home: all these come with 'responsibility', meaning as much complex burden as can just reach the edge of confusion.
SF, by day and by night, shaped thoughts for me, yet despite its Far Eastern overlay, its Beat bruises, its comfortable history of hip layback and Dharma rejection of commercial mindset and blanched-out conformism -- despite that, my mind works at near-paranoid chessmove expectation rates that require a Dalai Lama's worth of meditation.
O, My! Ohhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . . .
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