At the core of what is being written and spoken about here is mystery. The radical essence of this is the suggestion that you do not have life. That there isn't you and life. Just life. Or what is. It is a mystery that includes the writing of this sentence. A mystery where mystery is a mystery. In other words it is totally unknowable. Sourceless boundless unknowable life.
This is not theoretical. Or knowledge to hold on to. So there is nothing useful or helpful about what is being written about here then. And saying it is not useful is not a use either. Unknowable won't be knowable.
And so not unlike water flowing, grass growing, leaves falling, heart beating, wind blowing, tail wagging, it is a suggestion appearing to happen. Has no purpose or intention. Having no purpose or intention is not a purpose either.
It is no one's sky. No one's air. No one's suggestion.
A freedom then beyond any image of freedom.
Life then is just happening. Dissolving and rebooting in every breath.
Nothing appearing to happen.
An endless exhale.
An infinite mystery
Or simply just whatever is.
The impossible gift that cannot be given or received is simply "what is". What is cannot be lost or found, held or let go of. The suggestion being made on this website and in meetings is in the tradition of Advaita Vedanta and non-dualism. And that is, that there isn’t you and life. Just life or “what is” and this “what is” is not something apart. The impossibleness of this simple suggestion however is that it cannot be known and the impassable chasm is that there is already no you. Simply intimate & inescapable being full to the brim with whatever is. Too full for you. Nothing needs to happen for what is to be fully that. So paradoxly when that which never was drops away, what is left is an innocence about what innocence is and an unknowability that permeates everything. Unknowable 'life', free then to be however it appears to be being and already the case.
These words are not talking about anything other than the immediate inexplicable phenomenon of this very happening which is called reading this. “This”. There is nothing to say that will capture this pulsating happening. Words if taken to be real are objectified and so then the suddenness of whatever is, is apparently missed in the seeking to understand and know "this". Wonderfully that is also "this" unknowable happening. Anything said here describes the unfolding of that and seeks to illuminate the mirage of any personal doing in "this". There is what appears to be happening. Not you and. Just what is. The unfolding. The sourceless outpouring that cannot be known. Naked, empty & full with the words naked & empty. This. There is nothing once removed from the writing of these words and the very fullness of reading them. Just writing and reading. However for most, life can appear knowable. And somehow the inexplicableness is lost to the hypnotic dream of ideas and concepts about this, how "this" could be, or has been. Should, could, would. The newness is lost in the knowability and "what is" may appear predictable and stale. Nothing seems to fill the gap or yearning. What is being suggested here is that there is no you in there that can be completed. No you to feel whole. No you to hold or acquire anything. What really is being shared here is so horribly/wonderfully ordinary and simple that any word is too far. Simply this. Inexplicable ungraspable aliveness. However that is. Life without you. Or just what is.