We are creatures and creations of story. We love to tell ourselves story. We speak story to ourselves all the time. We say this is true and real. We say that is not true and not real. (By saying something is not true, we bring it into existence.) We define ourselves to ourselves constantly.
We listen to our self-talk and believe it is real. What we do not do is look to see what is talking. The talk absorbs our attention like bubbles on the surface of a body of water bubbling up from somewhere. We take our bubbling as Reality and spend our life as froth.
We love our story of ourselves even when we hate it. We are story-spinners. We keep ourselves endlessly entertained. Can we drop our stories and just be? Can we go beyond the nature of our mind, track the bubblings to the wellspring and open from that realmless realm? Do we dare go out of our little minds?
We listen to our self-talk and believe it is real. What we do not do is look to see what is talking. The talk absorbs our attention like bubbles on the surface of a body of water bubbling up from somewhere. We take our bubbling as Reality and spend our life as froth.
We love our story of ourselves even when we hate it. We are story-spinners. We keep ourselves endlessly entertained. Can we drop our stories and just be? Can we go beyond the nature of our mind, track the bubblings to the wellspring and open from that realmless realm? Do we dare go out of our little minds?
What is it that lies at the basis of understanding? Is this not who we are?
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