Who Believes in Atheists?

Atheism is a sad religion. To believe there isn't any god but still believing in the universe it made is sorry stuff indeed.

It's like to want a cake without a cook, and not to see you cooked up both the cake and yes, the cook, and all of it is nothing but imagination

and what's more: there isn't even any you. The me and universe it made is just the means that I intended to—to know my unknown essence.

In the end, it's not so much a god that's unbelievable, but the person in itself, professing atheism when there isn't any atheist at all.

But then again, just who am I?

The Great White Spirit of Mount Pemigewasset

It was my first real hike alone, in the Whites. Admittedly it wasn't Washington, or even Lafayette, but ascending fifteen-hundred feet was not exactly easy for this novice.

The path itself was just a little shy of two miles long from trailhead to the summit, and I enjoyed the early easy-going, although the bear claw imprint on an ash tree supplied adrenaline enough.

As the incline increased, I felt my heartbeat do the same, and as it increased even more, my backpack and my breathing got a little heavy. By the time I reached the top, I was literally a mess; sweat had soaked my t-shirt through and through.

But there atop the granite features they call Indian Head, I could see the notch below in all its mirroring the humble genius of an ancient glacier's flow. I thought of subsequent Abenaki tribes who traveled through that very valley giving thanks and praying to the silent peaks above them.

And then I saw the spirit of our age emerge from out behind a thicket. He was carrying a can of beer and smoking a cigarette, so cool there wasn't any sign of sweat about him. "Hey man," he laughed, "don't go spiriting  away my valuable point of view."

The Primordial Prophecy of I Ching

Careful formulation of your first and foremost question and the asking of it clearly and directly is the answer.

Whose face is that I see? What color is the sky? Which one is best for me? In truth, just who am I? 

Any mindful, lucid, open question is in fact an inquiry pertaining only to oneself. Even asking "who am I" reveals I am the Absolute Unknown.

In other words, much like the great reflexive universe of evolutionary and enlightening Intent, I always know, I always am, the answer—

it's the question, or the universe, that I am formulating which is the most material event that will, in space and time, reveal it.

The Revelation of the Poet Basho Divine

In Japan, on Matsushima Bay, a peacock passed a dragon in the light of day, two ferry boats progressing in their opposite directions. We were on the peacock,

contemplating pine-enshrouded little islands that pervade the bay like earthly stars within a navy sky or cherry blossoms being blown into the wind and rain.

But none of these descriptions do that setting any justice. In his journey on the narrow road, the poet Basho wrote a haiku on each scene he saw except on this one. No inspiration could exceed its revelation.

Tao that can be named is not the Tao. But tradition has him writing just the name of Matsushima and an exclamation word or two. Three times. The one becomes the two becomes ten-thousand exclamations!

Holy Mother, this astounding universe is either unbelievable or overwhelming if approached with any small amount of true attention. Dragon or the peacock: either way, it's not your doing.

The Evolutionary Sādhanā of the Light

It is the Great Intent of That Unknown to know itself. This is labeled evolution by the scientific-minded or enlightenment by those of no-mind.

The point of all of this, my world, our universe, is knowing I am That, that I, the Great Unknown, must first forget myself within the known,

this vast molecular morass of my intentional star stuff, and slowly learn by doing, rise by suffering, create my own vast laboratory for an ultimate unknowing,

where I see that all of this is false except my nameless and ungraspable existence, and in knowing only this, That Great Unknown now knows itself,

and like the final scene in some finale of a situation comedy, turns off the lights—but until then, I follow my enlightening intent, my evolutionary energy, my bliss, my love, my That.

Carl Jung on Facebook

There are no natural laws but just statistical truths and every one is subject to exception. Carl Jung said that. The hero knows it's zero and plays one anyways. I said that. 

All of this is just a story that we tell while on the road to nowhere. Nothing must be something to discern itself. An irony is something physical suddenly realizing all is immaterial. I just said that on Facebook.

We're all just avatars the absolute unknown must use to see itself, but in the process it believes the avatar is me and I forget I'm not an avatar. The paradox goes on forever if we only think about it.

One will climb the height of consciousness to gain that lack of oxygen within the Everest of awareness and. Be. Still.

Meditation on Lunar Silence and Solar Power

New Moon and silence fills the sky—

what day are we ordained to die?

It doesn't matter what I do—

this is false but that is true.

Tonight the vernal equinox

will balance all accounts of clocks

and every egg will stand upright

while consciousness will re-ignite

awareness of its unknown power—

the earth stands still and lifts a flower.

The Shaman of Phenomenal Yosemite

I lost my hat once in Yosemite, on a trail around the village, after visiting the nearby waterfall. Yosemite Waterfall is three waterfalls in fact. As one becomes two becomes three becomes the ten thousand things,

I watched the water split apart like shards of crystal lightning. I was alone, leaning on a glacial boulder, somewhat away from all the people who were frolicking within its wonder.

My hat was turned around so that the visor wouldn't interfere with picture-taking, like the black-and-white zoom shot of the lip of Upper Falls kissing the void of the absolute unknown.

This was sometime after leaving Glacier Point where I'd become entranced by the shaman figure of Half Dome across the great abyss in its High Sierra shocking world of alabaster granite.

From that viewpoint it appears to be enshrouded in a sorcerer's cloak and Yosemite itself is its astonishing phenomenal creation. There's nothing one can do but tip your hat surrendering to its intent to silence—

and illuminate.

The Red Winged Perfection of Understanding

Spring happened in the Stop & Shop parking lot; after putting all the groceries away inside the trunk, I opened up the driver's door

and sat inside and slipped the key into ignition and as I was just about to close the door, I heard their trill, and realized it had been there

but I was busy being me and didn't hear the wonder of rebirth, the renaissance of northeast marshes, Michelangelo of bird call,

Zen of emptiness is form and form is wavelength of an ice-out on the Merrimack as red-winged blackbirds have returned from Tennessee

and self-awareness is arising from material phenomena in consciousness through evolutionary Intent like chevrons on their wings becoming red

as April will arrive in all its yang of spring, spring, spring beyond, spring altogether all beyond, O what a great awakening!

The Oracle of the Underground

Lost in thought, one advances toward the oracle. No red wings flutter in this land of winter. Swamps of passion sleep beneath the ice.

Volition is denial of the natural watercourse of love. Ten thousand concepts sparkle in the frozen wasteland of the mind. Which forgery should one select?

The prophet from the south realm answers none. Forget the dollars of the senses. Division is a fabrication of an elementary schooling. Concentrate on one.

The voice of orioles is immaterial but gold. A charm is plummeting into an unfathomable well. The splash is always in the spring of heart.