The familiar cloak of otherness settled upon me once more, a quiet return to the edge of myself. Slowly, deliberately, I steered my awareness inward, resolving to engage the depths of Directed Restful Meditative Practice at the threshold of GATE ONE. My intention was clear: to weave the sacred song of inner and outer voice, bathed in the radiant hue of Zambhala.
But the moment I turned my attention, a torrent arose. The sheer volume, the overwhelming abundance, the piercing intensity of That Which Is engulfed me. It felt like a cosmic recapitulation, a “teacher’s review” echoing through the chambers of my being – a notion that always felt strangely comical, for who could truly retain the ephemeral whispers I sometimes offered? I am no master of instruction, yet I often resort to this mode, my attempts at clear discourse frequently falling short. Even these very words I now pen about That Which Is feel like another ripple in the stream of Interrupting Thoughts.
The luminous color of Amitabha, the second hue in my inner palette, I had designated for the practice of Being-Centered. And so, with focused resolve, I applied directed mindfulness. Yet, a disquiet settled within. I felt a subtle coercion, an unseen hand gently but firmly guiding “me” back within the boundaries of the very structure I had devised.
I then established a rhythmic flow for my breath and the movement of my mala beads through the landscape of Directed Restful Meditative Practice: “inhale across three beads, pause at one; exhale across three beads, pause at one; repeat,” all the while suffusing the practice with the pristine light of white. This pattern, however, felt artificial, constrained. A subtle resistance arose with each inhalation, a tightness in my chest mirroring a tension within. Instinctively, I eased the rhythm, shortening the inhale by a single bead.
This small adjustment shifted the practice entirely. It became welcoming, a gentle invitation rather than a forced march. Directed mindfulness deepened, revealing a new stratum of my inner world – a cacophony of mental chatter intertwined with a hazy sense of my own impotence to conjure That Which Is.
It was akin to stepping away from a schoolyard teeming with the joyful chaos of recess, observing the vibrant noise from beyond its invisible boundary. The vibrations still reached me, a distant hum, yet they no longer held the power to touch, to resonate within the core of my being. The sacred space of practice had offered a glimpse beyond the immediate, a step towards the quiet observer within.