Last week, during a dinner conversation in a noisy restaurant, someone I had just met asked me "What are you passionate about?" "What do you give your life to?" My response was immediate, "Conscious awareness". Then she followed up with "How do you do that?" What do you do that furthers that?" I answered, "By being who I am."
Yet - that seemed to be not enough...this body has an impulse to do more, to share, express, communicate...and the fear of doing that as well.
So here is the quandary. How can I express the ineffable? How can I explain the dispassionate ecstasy of being-ness? I fail over and over again in every attempt to point to this essential recognition always here in the silence of our open heart. It is not an object to describe so it eludes definition, it is not an experience to relate so it is impossible to recount, it can't be remembered because it is only present now. It is awareness itself, awareness aware of itself...it is ordinary, it is here, it is always available but it cannot be claimed...
I also fail in my effort to try not to describe, communicate or share this recognition. It won't be silenced, even if it's essential nature is silence itself. I attempt to simply observe, in knowing recognition that this peace is here, unavoidable because it is the very nature of existence itself - even in the heartbreak of the human condition. It is love, wanting to be expressed, wanting to be received, in this moment it is disguised as fear of not being perfect in expressing itself...so even though every attempt seems awkward, presumptuous and inarticulate - here I am stroking these keys driven by this inner command to express, share, acknowledge and simply respond to this mystery of being infinite love expressed through a human form, which by definition, is finite and separate.
I was speaking to a friend about this yesterday and she pointed out that my sense of being awkward, presumptuous and inarticulate in the face of trying to express this is actually why I must, it is my qualification because despite the failure to perfectly express the truth of this love it will be heard anyway, it is still here in the awkward turn of a phrase that doesn't quite say what I want to say. It is here in this presumptuousness of even thinking that I should write about this at all as if I had something to share that isn't already true for you. Even in this feeling of being so inarticulate and failing utterly...it is here, still here, free of all of these considerations. It is love itself that cannot be contained and is being expressed in every form no matter how awkward, inarticulate or perverse.