I’m writing from the beach at the Oshawa marsh on Lake Ontario. This a favourite place of mine ; I know it intimately. It’s a place that I return to sit in silence. Today the waves are raging, more powerfully than I have seen them do in the past. The beach is submerged in the surge. I hardly ever encounter another person here at this time of year. It’s so desolate here at times yet so close to urbanity.
“The state we call realisation is simply being oneself, not knowing anything or becoming anything. If one is realised, he is that which alone is and which alone always has been.” Ramana Maharshi.
Adyashanti writes that at the core of the false self is a void of deficiency derived from an essential turning away from one’s own divinity, either out of natural development, despair, or simply by succumbing to the trance of the world with all its masks of deception and harsh obligation to conform to its insanity. The false self orbits around this vacuous abyss at its core, in silent terror of its nameless, faceless threat of oblivion. The false self is a door you must pass through. I pass through it and return to it at times but more often these days I am able to leave it behind.