trusting my insights and at the very same time being free to let them go, recognizing that nothing is absolute in it’s observation and value, and that what’s received as knowledge is but a glimpse of all there is to ever truly know and understand. Any insight gleaned is temporary to this understanding, a portion to a seamless whole that seems impossible for the mind to fully grasp. This is the essence of a pointer, using a sliver of truth, words perhaps, a gesture, and bypassing the aspect of mind that only perceives a portion at a time — and of course not every pointer has equal value, an insight shouldn’t be mistaken for reality in its entirety, again just a seamless sliver of the whole.
so I trust my insights to lead me towards an expression of reality, my own artistic vision pointing to something deeper than my words alone can tell. I’m not offering truth, simply art for whatever it’s worth, and mostly for my own sake, compelled to write and share, not to claim anything other than a moment spent listening to insights offered through the silence of the morning.
no pointer is specific.
the classic example is the fool mistaking the master’s finger for the reality of sky as she gestures to the vastness of their surroundings. Of course the finger belongs within the sky, embraced by the boundlessness of reality, an aspect of truth, but far from its entirety. I’ve often been the fool in my stories, getting lost in expressions through my own infatuation with words and the insights that they offer. Yet generally I’ve come to the point of letting go, a surrender of belief in any insight, and most especially my own — my every word is expressed within the vastness of all that can’t be told. But I write them anyway, sharing, knowing fully well the irony of their gesture.
everything already existing as the whole.
trusting my insights…even as I let them go.