Present moment is a train station where you can change trains and destination, but you can never leave the train station.
I don’t like stepping into murky waters. I must see the bottom. I don’t like floating on my back, even in clear waters because I’m afraid I might drift away, hit something, or be bit by some surprise. All this gives me so much anxiety.
When I don’t see clearly, the counselor’s whisper gets louder; it recites the core story, the wings on which all other stories rest. He reads the territory in such a way to fulfill the core story, story of threats, of not being worthy, of abandonment. The counselor’s job is to fill the vacancy of trust.
And is not life just like that, floating in murky waters! A skewed past and an unknown future, and a small, fragile present.
Whatever is the core story, streaming ceaselessly in one’s ears inaudibly but most believably, simply out of habit, to that we always fall back in all unfamiliar ventures.
But who came first? I or the story? Who’s the storyteller, and who is the listener? What do you believe deep down? What do you hold true about yourself? And what’s the origin of these truths? And who verified them and gave them the status of truth? What if none is true? What if I float? What if the water is murky! What if I drift away, hit something, or be bit by a surprise!
I have no answers; I am full of questions. But let’s start here, in full suspension of what was unquestionably accepted and inquire into that which is doing the accepting and holding things true.
NOEMAYA 