On God’s Existence

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘Calm on the Mediterranean Sea’ – Ivan Aivazovsky, 1892 – WikiArt

There is no god. God is an invention that we have placed far away, out there, as an object for our prayers and hopes. As an entity to whom we can address our suffering. God was given that role so that we are not alone. We have divided ourself up into a self here and another greater self there, between which reside our secret longings and our beliefs. We have made god into a handy projection, for our convenience. A soothing presence who will be there for us after death, whom we can trust and rely on, whom we can give ourself to, and find protection in. We feel good in that undoubted certainty of a god.

But there is no god outside of ourself, no distant god, either in place or time. Of this we can be sure. Because wherever we may travel, however far we may go, we find only ourself. We are bound to our own being which we feel in a ‘here’, and in a ‘now’. So we fail in going somewhere that is outside ourself. It’s an impossible task. We cannot go there. Not in a million years. So god cannot be found outside of ourself. Nothing can. Everywhere is here. And every time is now. The only place for god to be is in our own being. There is no other place to be — even for god. There is no way around it. But we have first to understand our own being, our own nature. There, in ourself, is the resolution of the conundrum of god.

So what is this place of ourself, to which we are bound? What is it made of? If we leave our body aside, and our many thoughts and sensations, if we leave the world out of the picture, what is left of ourself that we can say is here, is now? What is this consciousness that we have lived with for as long as we can remember, and for which we seem to have but little interest ? This thing which has held our peace, our happiness, our perceived sense of beauty, even if only experienced rarely or fleetingly? This consciousness that is holding us, that is giving us our very existence, holding our suffering and our conflicts? Should we not feel grateful to have been held with such consistency? To have been held with our feelings, whether happy or sorrowful? To have been lent a body, whether healthy or sick, and a mind, though both may be just a passing dream?

This thing which is here undoubtedly, showing that peace is possible, that beauty is real, that happiness is within reach, is this not our most profound self? Is it not our very being? What we are here? What we are now? And this god which cannot be anywhere outside of ourself, could this god not be this, this very presence of ourself? Our very being? Our very consciousness? Which we are by nature every day of our life? That which can be felt in every bit of our heart and soul? That can give an explanation for ‘there is no god’? That can give a reality to ‘there is god’? That can show that, in fact, not only there is god, but there is only god? That everything, all that we are and experience, is god? That the god which we had thought at a distance, is nothing but the loving presence and reality of ourself and of everything? That life is nothing but the living, pulsating being of god, which we are only and wholly? And which we share with every other apparent being, and every possible appearance? And that this, is the one thing that ever was, and will ever be? And that this, is not inside ourself, for of ourself it is seen that there is not? And that this, is not outside either, for there is no being outside something inexistant? And that now, at the end of our journey, and all things considered, is realised that god is not even god? Because for a god to be, there would have to be separate things and selves to give it a form, and to call it god. There would still have to be a trace of suffering. There would still have to be separation. So there’s got to be no god. God is only for the poor fellows. But for who we are, there is no god. Only being being, at the most. Beyond that, nothing much can be said, lest we should invent some other god.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)

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Website:
– Ivan Aivazovsky (Wikipedia)

Suggestion:
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Humanness

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘The Human Mountain: Towards the Light’ – Edvard Munch, 1927-29 – Wikimedia

There is no human being. This is quite extraordinary to think of it, and even positively mind-blowing. But turn it around as much as you may, the true self of man is not where a body is. It doesn’t take shelter there. A body, or even a mind for that matter, is way too small and inappropriate to house your beautiful being. There is no room there. For how could the infinite enter something that is finite, limited, prone to decay and death? How could something that knows no beginning and no end, be contained in a passing thought, in a mind which is changing, developing, forgetting, believing, cheating and being cheated? In being, you won’t find the beginning of a change, won’t find even the possibility of death. In being, there is no forgetting who you are. Only a mind can forget its own nature, not because there is something there that can forget, but because thoughts, feelings, perceptions, when they are believed to be yourself, are hindering your true nature, rendering it as if absent. What is left is only a cheating thought that believes itself to be real as self, when it is not.

There is nothing depressing in not being a human being, and nothing demeaning. Being is such a malleable thing that we still retain the illusion of being a human being, a person, as we do now, but with the difference that this illusion won’t hide the reality that is behind it, and that is our true identity. Losing our identity as a person doesn’t mean that we won’t feel compassion for another, or love for our beloved, for love is not contained in being a self separate from an other. Love doesn’t need to be directed. We are not doing love, let alone giving it. Love is the expression or signature contained in our simply being. It is the feeling of being that irradiates in every directions, and that is shared as that which we are here and now. And don’t think either that you will lose your ambition, but it will be reoriented to be not your ambition, but the very contagion of being in every aspect of your life and world. And don’t think that you will miss out on happiness, for happiness was never yours, never your expression, never contained in achieving or obtaining a thing that thought has said you desire. Happiness is the very feeling of being, that we cannot contain or limit, but which splashes over to colour life with a golden hue of oneness.

So there is only being taking momentarily the clothes of a human being. But being itself has no qualifications, no colours which would render it a definable entity. The colours and the qualifications are not pertaining to being. They are the property of everything that appears in being, but is not being. They are in body, thoughts, sensations, perceptions, in all the existing things that come and go, dancing to make the form of a world, of what we call a human, a dog, a mountain, or the parking lot in which we park our car. To be being won’t diminish our feeling of being a person. It will enrich it, for being is the essence of a person. Being is the essential of our experience as a human being, only we don’t see that, don’t know that. Our focusing on the belief to be an objective entity that thinks, feels, and perceives has made us blind to our reality. So let’s remind ourself that there are no limited human beings, but only one unlimited being. This knowing and feeling of being only one unlimited being is a source of constant awe in life. And this vision is what gives its true colour and reality to our imaginary humanness.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by Edvard Munch (1863-1944)

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Website:
– Edvard Munch (Wikipedia)

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The Fantasy of a Self

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘Moonlight’ – Winslow Homer, 1874 – WikiArt

We only ever land where we are. There is no escape from where we are. Where we are, is all there is. I mean this deepest place of ourself, from which we have never been separated, is the very thing which we have been looking for in a thousand distant places, in endless situations, in hopes and expectations, in projections, attachments, identifications. Our mind has been thirsting for this place of peace for as long as we can remember, and it has been escaping us with perfect consistency. For there is a rule attached to this place: we can’t find it outside of ourself. And the reason is: there is no place outside of ourself. Ourself — what we are here and now — contains all that we could long for. It is the home which we have left through our contant looking for it in the wrong direction. Our seeking is way too aggressive for its tender being. Our peaceful home lies in the nest that our being is, and this nest of being is where all existence finds its birth and takes its journey.

The problem with accessing our being — our peaceful home — is that we have introduced a self. We have posited a self that is separate from the peace it is looking for. And if peace is situated at a distance from ourself, therefore where we are is the place where peace is not. We have superimposed a self on our peaceful being, and in doing so have invited suffering, which is but the seeking for our lost peace or happiness. It all comes from the connivance of a few thoughts, feelings and sensations, which have set themselves up as a self. It is all part of a scheme on their part, and a gross one if you ask me. For how could something that is coming and going have a self? Something as flittering as a thought, or a sensation, could never produce a self. The self that we think we are, and that we feel is at a distance from experience, is fabricated. It is a product that we have elaborated to feel secure. But we cannot find security in a self. Security is rather the absence of a self, and the merging of ourself with experience, which is felt as oneness.

This self, without our noticing, has created untold damages, it has made life into a havoc. It has invented a within and a without, a here and there, a now and then, when there is in fact only a seamless experience. All these distinctions are of course necessary for our functioning in a world, but they are not the reality. And to ignore their reality is to transform them from a few peaceful, useful devices into brigands that have made experience either something to be feared and avoided, or desired and pursued. In other words, being a self has made experience into a dependence, a battlefield for our own imaginary benefit. But in fact, there is in reality only a now that is ever present and eternal, and a here that has no boundary, no limit, and is infinite. And there is a within that we will cease seing within, for after all thoughts and images are filtering experience to the point of making it their own creation. Thoughts are not just within. They are scattered all over the field of experience, colouring everything we see or hear. And the without will cease being without. For where could without be if not in our intimate experience. So the trees, the houses, and the dog we meet in the street are part of our very own being, for there is only one being out of which they could make an appearance. Where would another being than our being be? To posit another being than our being, or a without without, or a within within, or a there, or a then, is to be absent to our true being or nature, and to live in a world scattered about and fragmented, where reigns every bit of suffering and conflict. But to live as the One renders without within, within without, there here, then now, and our being just only one being. The rest is but a fantasy which we can either buy and suffer from, or borrow and play with.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-1910)

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Website:
– Winslow Homer (Wikipedia)

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Our Only Landscape

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘An Autumn Landscape with a view of Het Steen’ – Peter Paul Rubens – WikiArt

We are always wandering about, always attracted by a thousand things. Falling for every passing experience. Looking for the fleeting promise it might carry. The reason is: we are so vulnerable to happiness. We want it above all else, at all cost. We know we deserve it, that it is our due, that it is natural, in the order of things, to be happy, rested, at peace. So our mind is never still. Seeking to obtain it. Longing to have it given. Working for it relentlessly. Sometime pretending to be happy if necessary. If it is what it takes. After all, this is the game we are being asked to play. This is our fate, that we have accepted as the norm, and to which we have complied and have been a slave. We would do anything to feel alive, contented, our heart full, our mind at peace, secure, on top of things. And we feel depressed when being turned down. Lost and disheartened at every bout of despair or suffering.

But maybe it is all an unfortunate misunderstanding. Maybe we have taken a wrong turn, and were embarked in our own forgetfulness, distracted by the general consensus. Maybe there is no need to wander about. Maybe experience is of no need to us for happiness. Maybe happiness is not found in experience, not in the least. Maybe working for it creates a distance, a gap, throwing it far and away, like something never reached, never quite here. Maybe hoping for it makes us a self, an illusory entity that needs to obtain peace through the satisfaction given by objects, events, favourable circumstances, which makes us dependent and fearful. What an irony it would be, if it were just this, just this misunderstanding, and that happiness was in fact right here, already spread in and as our sense of being, offered to us with a ruban — a gift eternal for our simply being here and now. How clumsy on our part, to have looked away from ourself for that which is not only in ourself, but our very own self itself. How foolish it all was.

So, this is how it is! We are already fixed in our being, which is peace, which is joy, and have been so all along. We have missed that: that this was our belonging, our identity, to be at peace, firm, stable, fastened, secure in our simply being. And that this simply being was enough, the completion we were after, what we thought was to be earned at the very end of a deceitful string of efforts. Adding to simply being is where we made the mistake, where the wrong turn was taken. We had to stay where we were, and simply notice where we actually were, and what we in fact truly were. Being was not a little thing, undeserving of attention. Being was the completion, everything: you, happiness, peace, experience, the world, all gathered in and as the simple experience of only being. That’s how you lose all wandering, all attraction to things, exchanging them for the one only attraction worth falling for, which is yourself. You have to fall for yourself, for your being. You have to let being embrace you, and swallow you. Then, you won’t have to be anything, won’t have to look for something or someone other than yourself. For you are the fact of being, and this in itself is all the landscape you will ever need and find yourself in.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640)

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Website:
– Peter Paul Rubens (Wikipedia)

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The Intimacy of Experience

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘First Leaves, near Nantes’ – Camille Corot, 1855 – WikiArt

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I will tell you where to be. Be where every experience feels an equally good experience. Don’t be attached to judgment and comparison. These are the mind’s favorite tools and activities. The mind tricks you to believe that experience is an uneven ground. That according to the content of your experience, you will be gifted with either happiness or suffering, peace or conflict, harmony or disorder. So the experience you are having becomes extraordinarily important. We become dependent on what happens to us, and come to dread it. So we retire into the secure place of our habitual self, with its cortège of worry, control, expectation, and manipulation.

There is a place in us where you don’t find experience to be such a determining factor. Where you will not let experience determine you, fix you, limit you. You won’t be shaped by its content. You won’t be made into something, someone, with qualities and flaws, to be judged, evaluated, compared with — the likeness of experience — in fact, just another object. The mind is a manufacturer of objects, entities, persons, fixing the insubstantial nature of your being into a self to be moulded and made either happy or miserable. To be made happy by an experience is to be cheated on by it: we are being manipulated, and made to believe an illusion. To let experience make us miserable is sheer deceitfulness, it is us being easily dazzled by the treachery and artifice of objects.

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Continue this exploration of the nature of experience… (READ MORE…)

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Spiritual Wine

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘Lovers under the moon’ – Serge Sudeikin, 1910 – WikiArt

The word ‘spiritual’ is quite a nebulous one. It is used indiscriminately, carelessly, for a bewildering array of wildly different practices or beliefs. Krishnamurti didn’t like the word, which he found ‘ugly’, ‘romantic’, ‘unpleasant’, and used it cautiously. So maybe the time has come to clean the word, to give it some of its forgotten brilliance, and dig out its original meaning and raison d’être. I would start with the suggestion that the word ‘spiritual’ simply wants to point something at us: that the world, the whole of it, our experience, everything, is in fact made of ‘spirit’. Spirit is all there is, the only thing in presence. And believe me, this is a timely pointer, for most of us believe the world to be a hard reality, made of something solid, composed of a variety of different objects — our body-mind being considered one such object. So the word has the virtue of reminding us of our true nature, of the nature of everything as spirit, or consciousness.

But it is only a provisional word, one for our time of misunderstanding. There will come a time when the suggestion that experience is made of spirit will be a matter of fact, something integrated, not to be thought about anymore. The word will then become redundant, to be replaced by another word of a higher intensity and meaning. Or maybe there won’t be any need for a word to describe reality. Reality will have been understood, digested, lived as the fact of simply being. Spirituality will have become useless. There will be no need of spirituality, no need even of the word ‘happiness’, or ‘peace’. Once you are wholly, and only spirit, which is peace, which is happiness, what need is there to mention it? There will be no seeking either. After all, what you are, you are. Identity will have been achieved. No suffering around. Seeking obsolete. Out of date. To be disposed of. What will remain is a splendour, indescribable, filling the world of experience to the brim with its essence.

Also, spirit means ‘breath’. It is the breath of life, a thing invisible, transparent, quietly sitting in the background, and yet essential and life-giving. It is what is playing us, giving us an identity and a sweetness of living. For spirit is like the air we breathe. It is still, silent, empty, yet a breath that can blow our mind and make us like an inextinguishable fire. It is the breath of god that we have left unnoticed time after time, but whose presence is holding us in its firm embrace. It is a breath of devastating effects, laying us waste, destroying all traces of suffering and separation, blowing our self away, not by slaying it but by showing this self to be just the air within the divine breath of god. You had thought yourself a hard, solid, but fragile entity, and are now shown to be empty yet as indestructible as is a fire in the wind. That’s what being spiritual, or spirit-like, truly means.

Spirit also means character, and courage. It doesn’t pretend, and rejects a lukewarm understanding. It is uncompromising and free. It is not afraid, not conditioned by the hazards of life. It stays firm, alone, whole, undisturbed. Spirit is eternally high, but mingles with the lowly too, for it is humble by nature. And it has clarity as its best asset, for it is blessed with the purity contained in knowing without being itself a knower. This knowing is undivided, self-contained, total, applying to all and everything. This is what makes it holy, a spirit which cannot be taken apart, and which contains universes beyond universes. It has a religious quality, a sanctity that is beyond what humans have called sacred. The wholeness of spirit cannot be broken, dampened, violated, injured, or even changed. Its holiness lies in the fact that it is one without any division or addition.

And spirit is music too. It has a sound to it, and it is our duty to play it, or rather being played by it — the musician being god, or spirit itself. Our being is found to be the breath of god, the movement of consciousness singing our life on the reed of our apparent self. As that, we may become the vessel of a life whose notes have risen above the ten thousand things of existence, to be taken by various harmonies of silence, peace, love — all carried by a quiet but devastating breeze of inner joy, like a hum. We are like God’s music, and our experience is bathing inside it, and being made melody. This is what spirituality is, and what a life lived in and as spirit sounds like.

“‘Tis the fire of Love that is in the reed, ‘tis the fervour of Love that is in the wine”, Rumi once wrote in the Masnavi. So spirit is a delightful beverage too. It is what gives us this gentle drunkenness which is the state of our self when it recognises itself to be but God’s being. In Spirit, we are intoxicated by the ‘Love that is in the wine’. For this nectar, we are willing to pay the price of surrender at the tavern.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by Serge Sudeikin (1882-1946)

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Website:
– Serge Sudeikin (Wikipedia)

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The Possibility We Are In

Posted on by Alain Joly
‘Old Sarum’ – John Constable, 1834 – WikiArt

Whatever there is is God’s presence felt. And whatever we may feel of God’s presence, is what there is here and now, including what exists and appears. It is all here for our recollecting, all here that we can be and be god like. Every experience that we may have, every sorrow and every joy, every fear or trust, every ugly or beautiful appearance, is felt and seen because of our being first. To watch anything is to be watched in return by a presence watching. We can make ourself disappear in it, and be without a self, without the self we have always known and colluded with. And we can share of that impersonal, infinite being that is not ours, but that we can be and embrace as our own. So ‘I am’ is the secret door opener within us, that will give us the world we are in. We will have an aggrandised property, or a world made of the very size of ourself, infinite, manageable, and towards which our being may shine a benevolent beam of light and peace. That I feel is a possibility.

The world will have its secret identity disclosed to us. And we too will have our secret identity revealed. Both being made one, and ourself being of it. Others will cease being others. They will join us as that shared one being. There won’t be any jealousy or comparison, but a rejoicing in and as that oneness felt. Our fate and destiny will be contained inside us, within our own being. There won’t be a time to hope for, or a place to fail in, or a self to mess up. There won’t be a fear of tomorrow, or a regret of yesterday, for both will have merged in and as the being that we are. Time and place will have come to be only convenience. And our very being will have come to be the time and place we are in. That too is a possibility.

The knowing of our own being will have come to be our only experience. The many will have shrunk into the one, and the infinite will have subdued our senses, and made itself seen, heard, touched, and contained within our experience. Happiness will cease being a temporary achievement, and will become the flavour of our shared being with people and things. We will have joy woven into every single corner of our life. That’s the possibility we have at hand.

Movement will be seen as the manifold expression of stillness, and silence recognised as the only component of our living symphony. Turmoil will be felt as this last bit of ourself that we have yet to embrace — not something to be afraid of, but an opportunity that we welcome. We have to see this as a possibility.

So this life is the garden of Eden we once extricated ourself from, but have in fact never left otherwise than in our imagination. And love is not an occasional encounter, but the very air we take our breath from. I’m just throwing the possibility in the air.

Now we recognise after all, that the being of God is what we are — the possibility we are in, without there being a God or a ‘we’.

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Text by Alain Joly

Painting by John Constable (1776-1837)

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Website:
– John Constable (Wikipedia)

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