No-Self Discovery

I seem to have found it!

It is I. It is not I.

Let’s call it Christ, because Christ is the constant in whom all things manifest. It is Christ and I am. Yet I am not Christ. Such a claim would be ridiculous. It is I.

You see the muddle I am in?

Ha! I have found it. Here it is. The I, the all in I. Christ. I have it here in me like a bean. It appears transparent, flares up, moves from my sight, then reappears, here, then here. I hold it in my heart, cupped, in the palm of my heart, cupped, lovingly.

Christ the bean, which is I.

At sunset I almost had it, but it would have destroyed me. Red sky spaciousness. It burned me, tore my eyeballs to shreds, left me dumb and gaping. Such catastrophic beauty! The all in all in I. Almost. It.

One place I find it is the bench up there. It happily comes through the trees and the flies and the tyre factory, sits with me happily, as it should do, as it wants to. Jesus, I call it. Here it’s a gently exploding glass, a drenching in love. Here it sits. Jesus.

It leaps from the young lovers to the family enjoying a summer stroll to the little boy peddling his bicycle uphill. It leaps to me. It leaps like the moment you recognise the world and everyone in it, the I that they are. Yes, that’s it! That’s . . . oh everyone listen to the eye that’s new me not me. Swallow it whole! Digest it!

You as I.

You, not you.

Not I.

We seem to have found it. You in me, the I. It.