(2)

Not long ago, while out walking one afternoon, I attempted to narrow the focus of my awareness so as to attempt the most undistracted, most directly experiential mode of consciousness possible to achieve.  And indeed, I felt myself able to obtain this state for a short period of time – perhaps a half hour or so all told.  The character of the state was rather surprising though:  my mind, I found, was not unadulterated by thoughts, daydreams, etc, at each and every moment; rather, it was simply no longer distracted by this activity.  I narrowed my awareness to a pinpoint of focused attention, and when words formulated themselves within my consciousness, I allowed them to simply float away.  When snatches of music played in my head, I made no attempt to stop them, but neither did I allow my concentration to be swayed.  Daydreams arose and, without the energy of my attention to feed them, faded into oblivion.  I was not, however, forcing my mind not to focus on these things; rather, I found I was simply able to "rest" within a state of pure, focused consciousness.  The best way I can think of to describe it is to say that my awareness of my conscious mind was in a state of suspension.  This was merely an extension of the meditative state, of course; only now the object of my meditation was not the examination of my own psychology, but simply that of consciousness, in and of itself.  And yet I mean more than even this:  for I was not meditating on a state of pure consciousness (this implying a continuing sense of dislocation within myself), but was able at last to close that gap; and thus existed, for however brief a time, in a state of pure "beingness."

The world as experienced in this way was a very vivid place.  Everything about me looked, not so much "important" as entirely present to my eyes.  I felt buoyant, enthusiastic, even euphoric, as if I was, for the first time in my life perhaps, truly "awake."  I wandered the streets in a state of sheer delight:  This, I felt, is what it means to be happy.

The experience did not last, of course.  I did not really expect it to.  Though I felt, while it was occurring, that I was experiencing an entirely fulfilled state of existence, and though it may be that this time was expressive (though probably not to its greatest degree) of how one may learn to live always, I have not tried since to reattain the experience.  I may attempt to do so in the future; I could not at present say.  Curiously, I do not mind my lack of certainty on this point.  I no longer mind that the path I travel cannot be "seen," or be rationally understood; that I am, in a sense, "blind" to it.  Perhaps, as the physically blind are compensated to some degree by an increased acuity of other physical senses, I too have been compensated by a certain inner sense or sensibility which I can now trust to guide me.  To follow this inner guidance correctly I need only be, simply, myself.  At the same time, of course, I must recognize that "I" (the conceptualized, abstracted version of myself that I carry about in my head) am Nothing:  "I," in that sense, do not really exist.  Only Existence exists.  Only the path exists.  I will not, however, pretend more knowledge than I have and say that I now understand the path I take, for it's not a matter of understanding so much as of experiencing – of "being."  I will not say that I am now at peace, for there is much still in life that pains me, and I am often aggravated by the the presence of that pain.  All I can say, perhaps, is that I feel myself to be a little more "at rest" now.

But who knows?  Perhaps all I should really say is that I have come one step closer to death.

The days have grown cool enough now, what with the fall weather starting, so that I can begin walking regularly to the cemetery again.  I've gone there several times this past week to sit under my tree, back propped against its rough trunk, legs stretched out before me.  I feel very relaxed and contented as I sit there, looking at the trees (still green, but beginning to drop a few leaves now), and at the animal and insect life around me.  I sit there and think my thoughts – or rather, I let thought flow through me, for I no longer seem to want to pay such close attention to the workings of my own psyche.  I can "distort" my psyche more or less at will these days, now turning off my analytic mind and concentrating on my sensory perceptions, now observing my sensory perceptions with complete detachment (so that a sound, for instance, seems like a scratch made upon the air, or my perception of color grows more intense, or my tactile sensations more acute), now observing how my thoughts or sensory observations affect my physical being and my emotions.  I may wonder to what degree my sensory self might be defined as the reactive invention of my environment, or to what degree it acts as a causative of that environment's existence.  I may wonder all sorts of things – but I no longer feel that anything much hangs on it.  Perhaps I'm mistaken in this attitude; but if so, I assume that eventually I'll be made aware of it.  It's not that my psychological self no longer interests me, precisely; it's simply that I no longer identify myself wholly and completely with it.  Now it's like a voice whispering in my ear:  I listen to my mind as if it were a sort of disembodied spirit speaking to me.  It's my friend – but I know it plays tricks on me sometimes too!

I look at the trees.  I watch the autumn breezes playing over the grass, making it shiver.  Chipmunks are everywhere to be seen, busily collecting seeds and nuts for the winter.  Birds chase each other about, enjoying a few days' respite between the chores of raising their young and the migratory flight they will soon make south.  Cabbage butterflies too, fluttering like the petals of flowers that blossom mid-air, seem to be everywhere, as are those curious, tiny brown moths that fly up in front of you as you walk through the grass.  Mushrooms and toadstools, I notice, are flourishing . . .  I sit under my tree and look and look.  Sometimes my thoughts turn towards the dead, buried all around me; when I think of them I feel a sort of trembling deep underground.  There they lay, stretched out flat beneath their stones, withered hands folded demurely over shriveled chests, waiting . . .

Ants begin to crawl over me as I sit.  They crawl over my pant-legs, under my shirtsleeves and up my arms, tickling.  I blow them off, gently; or put my hand down against the ground so that they can crawl back onto the grass again . . .

Then, suddenly, down between my fingers where the skin is tender – a big black one bites.

WHERE YOU ARE)