I think writing about this is not sacrilege because I think writing is an abstraction of existence. I've written about that before, and seem to restate it a lot. It's what makes writing breathe - the gap between my life and these words form a lung which insufflates its own space, a living, breathing space that is prone equally to collapse (build some sort of climatology, become an aeronaut, study pneumatics: that is the readers job).
Inside meditation, which is as unstable as the lung of language, things emerge from spaces unseen and move on rapidly, or sometimes stick and drag along a trailing mess. Those things I am reluctant to name, but suppose they are commonly understood as thoughts or feelings or memories but are better described as hybrids, misappropriations, overstatements, aliens. They go on all the time, meditation reveals them.
Living alongside those things, there is no choice but to live trying to cope with distraction and division. In mantra meditation, hearing the consistent sound of a mantra is a difficult task because these other images and sounds are relentless. But today it became apparent that the person listening to the mantra is me, and that I am someone nobody else has ever met.
I am the only one who can hear that sound, it is information exceptional to my experience in that moment.
Avoiding all activity and simply listening to that sound means I have the opportunity to spend company with the thing that listens. Imagine spending time with the quiet part of yourself that nobody else has met, the part which just listens. It's like meeting somebody for the first time: but someone who doesn't talk, isn't biased, doesn't argue, won't complain, hasn't been hurt, isn't unfair, wouldn't lie. Just a person who observes, which is what everybody is underneath the temporal bedlam of social interaction and identity crises.
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