The Still Point Revisited

still-point.jpgA solitary walk in the early morning sunshine provided a much-needed change from the bed rest which has been my lot so frequently, this past week.  My pace was slow, but I savoured every moment, listening to the birds, enjoying the impossible blue of the sky behind the glossy foliage of gum trees.

As I walked, I also reflected upon the nature of conscious observation.  We go about our daily lives, working, travelling, relaxing – always on the move, it seems. We become aware of impermanence, of the ceaselessly changing nature of existence. We try to live in the moment, yet find ourselves drawn back into the dramas we create.

But what happens when we find the still point in our consciousness? Nothing less than the reversal of our perception.

When we rest in the still point, life flows around us, through us, and we simply observe. Even in the act of walking, even when talking, mopping the floor, playing the piano; even now while I am typing, life is flowing past like glimpses of scenery viewed from a train.  Angie is typing and I am watching her hands.  But I am not moving.

Where does it reside, this still point? What is its location in us and in the universe?  Our perception of it is conditioned by our mind-body.  I feel it as a large orb stretching from the base of my ribcage to somewhere in the sternum above my heart.  It has a connection to the crown of my head and my forehead.  Of course, this is simply an energy reaction to stillness, which calms the central nervous system while stimulating certain points.

We weave narratives around it. In mine, there is but one consciousness, all-pervading, universal, and when I am in my still point, it is this consciousness that looks out upon itself through my eyes.  It is the self-reflective One, the Eyn Sof, the undifferentiated first principle, it is everywhere and nowhere, everything and no thing, the alpha and the omega and the I Am.  It is the ‘thou art that’ and the Buddha mind, it is the laughing god, the creator and destroyer.

It is the consciousness of mycelium, self-communicating and whispering to the trees. It is the ability of indigenous communities to communicate telepathically across enormous distances.  It is the silent word that speaks galaxies into being.  It is moveless, but within it swirls chaos.

It is our past, our present and our future, all that is, all that is not.

Be still and know.

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