Thoughts Are Just Thoughts

I tend to believe that when I’m resisting a thought, I’m resisting what the thought seems to be about. So I apparently resist the thought and then there seems to be an emotion or some kind of reaction in the body. This seems to lead to more thoughts and to more resistance.

On the other hand, sometimes I believe that when I like a thought I actually like what the thought seems to be about. I apparently grasp at the thought for what it represents and then there seems to be an emotion or a bodily reaction. A cascade of pleasant thoughts might come along with pleasant sensations.

After a while, it always changes: first thoughts I like, then thoughts I don’t like, and then thoughts I like again. First feelings I like, then feelings I don’t like, and then feelings I like again. The thoughts I like are the ones that fit the story of who I am, “I am a capable engineer,” and the thoughts I don’t like are the ones that don’t fit the story of who I am, “I am incompetent;” Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

In reality, thoughts have no more basis in reality than just being thoughts. In reality, what’s happening is always beyond thought, richer and more vibrant than thought. Thought is just one of the many ways that what is happening can show up. Thoughts are wonderful and beautiful, but they are only conceptual.

There is no need for me to grab hold of thoughts or to push thoughts away. Thoughts pass through like clouds in the sky. There is no need to grasp at them or to resist them, or even to allow them. Imagine trying to control the clouds; I can try, but the result won’t be very satisfying.

John sat in his office looking out the window when Kate came in and asked him, “What are you doing?”

“I’m allowing the clouds,” replied John.

Kate was puzzled, “Why are you allowing the clouds, John?”

John, irritated by the question, shot back, “Because then they might go away, of course!”

But even when I am resisting or grasping at thoughts, believing that they’re more substantial than clouds, even that is being effortlessly allowed. Even that is happening without any effort from the supposed “me.” Even though the thoughts are not actually about anyone, and even though there is no me to have thoughts, nor a life that those thoughts might reference, this illusory “me” is also appearing effortlessly in all that is.

There is no need for me to “do” me. I am being done. I have always been done. I am not truly a doer. I am a fictional creation in this, a character in a play, no more or less real than I have ever been. I am playing my part in each apparent moment, exactly according to the script that is constantly materializing from nowhere. Each part of what is happening is playing its part perfectly and effortlessly, because it too is being lived. It’s all being lived.

There is no way to get it wrong because there is no one to get anything wrong. There is no wrong or right. There is only this, and this, and this, and this.

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