If non-fiction is formless, and form is fiction then how do I dis-identifiction within form?
Healing is available. It is an abiding presence that we can always turn toward. Nothing really to “do” but remember: this presence allows every kind of form to function – just like these little black letters. How could I see them without the white background? The page I take for granted, is like the formless healing force that holds all of my lonely, exciting, tragic, boring, irritating, beautiful, dreamy, frightening, or painful stories without a single comment of how good or bad they might be.
It really doesn’t matter how miserable or sick I am. Healing feels like there is nothing to change. Say it again: Nothing to change, nothing but change, nothing to change. Nothing to wait for. Patiently or compulsively. Nothing to escape from: no trap doors to open or shut. Nothing to get. Nothing to get rid of. Nowhere to go. It doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t require behaviors. No one can be more or less deserving. It can’t be reached through conceptual striving, apology, or by creating consolation from disappointments. It can’t be explained or accomplished. Healing is not something that will save me from an outcome I want to avoid. When I dwell within healing, my experience is acceptable, no matter what the situation.
Sometimes, I feel like I would like to complain about my discomfort. It will be either:
1. Something should be happening, but isn’t.
2. Something that is happening, should not be.
Sometimes, when I say things about how I feel, I am hoping it will purge the pain from my experience. It is a kind of “getting rid of” impulse. It seems like doing that just chisels in more grief. Identifiction.
Sometimes though, when I say things about how I feel, I can let it be exactly the way it is. Allowing. Receptive as a white page. I’ve told a story that doesn’t argue with existing. This is when healing, the always available and formless background, pervades whatever form is currently gnashing its teeth. The grind becomes a melody. Maybe it’s a sad one, but it doesn’t feel like stuck gears, sputtering then spent. I can feel into what has been holding this story all along.
Viola! Dis-identifiction.
So I say to myself: Remember!!!! Remember the simple but potent source of healing - so pure, so basic, so clear, so plain, that again and again and again I overlook it. I don’t see “clearness” because I am looking for “something.” Remember that healing allows. Allows everything.