Monday, September 03, 2007
While sitting on my customized cushion of sphagnum peat moss observing the sun edge its way clear of clouds to warm the cells of my skin that stretch in waking response, and the distinctive crow of our band-major rooster, and new okra blossoms giving way to the fruit I am creating new recipes for, and birds gracefully darting across the clearing in this river front forest, and a muscle twitch in my right calf, and Hettie doing her morning squirmy back scratching routine on her way to check for cats, and the flavor of the coffee, and the deafening air coaches on their way to screech on tarmac four miles away, and the fragrant levity of my pipe, and a newly graduated tadpole hopping after bugs barely smaller in the shade of a pepper plant, and the gurgle of my gut as valves deal with my nutrition autonomously, and a glorious black and iridescent blue butterfly nurses the orange and red cones of orchid flowers on the pride of Barbados bush, and the puny progress of late summer black eyed pea sprouts planted where the tomatoes rotted in July, and the prick of a mosquito unseen on my back … I realized once in a magical again… I am not observing from my body.
I am observing my body tell me what it observes on both sides of its skin. But me, I’m simultaneously no entity and at the center of all, no more my body’s self than the trees or the toad or the sun. But my body insists I have exclusive access to interface with its genetic memories, experiential cornerstones and sensations in the eternal present, and what’s more, I enjoy it, like an old soft pair of jeans. I suppose that’s the reason I call it mine and all too often identify with it with equal exclusivity.
I have had mutually consensual access to several other bodies in my body’s lifetime as completely as both of us could bear. Of those, several had occasion to reach the mutual realization that we were but one and the same observer, simultaneously as they so happened. The twoness of the pair of bodies, the very infinity of variety in the universe all seem to be the observer’s way of getting honest, autonomous answers from these bodily instruments of sensation just as I do from the cells of the body that claims the part of the observer that enjoys its sensations.
I am aware of the difficulty in sorting out the pronouns above due to language evolved to describe the myth of our civilization that believes and speaks it and can only say that the personal pronouns refer to the observer who’s sensory input the physical world is. All others refer to the individual sensual entities that are the physical world: the perceivers, the perceptions and the perceived — all observed in process. I figured it would be better to use the impersonality of pronouns for the observer, despite the confusion, considering the feathers that get ruffled when names like soul, god, creator, master, or supreme anything get bandied about. Our gestalt cannot be considered superior to the answers upon which we depend for satisfaction of our curiosity, nor is belief required when the questions are asked of autonomous entities thinking the questions came from within their separate, independent self.
Awakening to the observer obviates the separateness required of belief systems. Maybe.