Once again it begins. I sit facing a blank piece of paper. Well, a blank digital representative of a piece of paper, I am, perhaps being rather old fashioned descriptively. And I am typing, rather than writing. But the effect is much the same, a modified continuity of days gone by. Where shall I be led in this passing hour?
I never know what I am going to write, what will fall out of me. I never plan what I am going to talk about in my videos, what comes through me, or are me, in expression of the pleasures and pains, the insights and darks days in expression of this life lived to this date and of the death I am aware I am to meet and of the impact this experience we call living and dying has had on the being we all call 'me'.
It is late at night, or early in the morning, dependant on perspective, the time by the clock is two o'clock in the morning. And I cannot sleep. And that is neither good or bad, it is what it is. This night, the recent past has rather occupied the mind. Time is of a strange nature, is it not? Time is two things. There is physical time, the time allotted to live one’s life, a convenience to meet a good friend for a walk by the river at an agreed hour.
For some, a fleeting thing indeed, for others, lasting over a hundred years, and even more. I wonder if the quantity we measure in years, has anything of any value at all to it at all? I wonder if the quality of a day lived completely has not more value than the passing of a hundred lifetimes.
For nothing is permanent, nothing is permanent. I could fill out the rest of these pages with the same sentence, and it would not imprint them any deeper than stating it once. Nothing is permanent. Life, if known by any quality, could be summed up in one word. Change.
What value has life? Very little the way we live it, it seems. The value we have all been tricked into giving our lives has been the value of living life in a continuing pattern. A pattern is repetitive and what is repetitive, soon comes to meet the tears of boredom and despair.
Our lives begin so freely, as freely as nothing can ever be. This freedom does not last long, a few years perhaps at best. For everyone and everything is intent on telling us the nature of the life we have been born into. And of ensuring our lives are to follow the course of this pattern laid down.
First, comes the name. We are identified, objectified, made into something, for names are words, pointers to 'things' and words divide all. We are instructed as to the ordering principles of our lives. We are instructed into what religion we must believe, who God is, the value of this unseen, mysterious energy, the silence behind every word, led into by countless of the same. We are told of the 'values' of life, and that this is the only way to live. For some parts of life, these remain close to standard among us and through the duration, long or short, of our time here. What is beautiful, what is not, how we live, how we don’t. What is acceptable, what is not. Our freedom, year after year, is slowly being taken away. We are being conformed to living life in a pattern.
A pattern we have no perception of, to the young mind, he or she is being 'educated' and this leading is of assured benefit to his or her life perception. After all, all must be understood, must it not? And understanding, is a process of categorisation, naming, concepts, beliefs, ideals and judgements. The values of good and bad must be imparted, for otherwise, how would a child even know how to live? Understanding, is a matter of words. Only, it is not.
A child rarely questions the instructions and orders given, he or she obeys and he or she receives the rewards or the consequences for the accuracy of how they come to meet whatever is expected of them to meet.
I can remember being perhaps ten years old. I remember the first time in my virgin decade, I came to hear of 'politics'. The ordering of the lives of all by a few. In later years of course, I have come to understand this ordering is nothing other than a disordering and I have come to understand why, but even then, now a full half century ago, that young mind questioned the value of anyone else ordering another’s life. It troubled his young brain. There seemed no way to come to meet any logical definition of why this could ever be advantageous to anyone’s life. Some of life’s lessons take a long time to arrive, some are quick to understanding, and that understanding can last an entire lifetime.
I remember another curious mental conundrum. I was, as so many are, given no choice in attending church. I was brought up to be a Protestant. Another name to be collected to add to a growing list over time. Another categorisation. Another mental construct. Another division. I must have taken my Sunday School studies fairly seriously, for I was gifted a Bible at a very young age for perfect attendance throughout the whole year. I must confess also however, the whole affair rather bored the young boy. The repetitive nature of it, the singing of psalms, which my father would partake within with definitive gusto almost raised a sense of alarm. Gifted a Bible or not, perfectly attended or not, I have few fond memories of my young church years. It all seemed so serious an affair.
I do remember praying, as much as I remember yet the firm hand of my father when I behaved outside the accepted laid down patterns being established. What did I pray for? I have no memory of that now. Perhaps, that I would not be beaten again. God, remained silent.
Life, was so very simple and different to the life met today, it seems strange to imagine that the life born to meet as a child, could have led to here. And yet, it has. Change, after change after change, the boy has died. And in his place, types this man, now sixty years old. Simple as life was back then, the hand of corruption was still present. After all, there were politicians around.
I remember so many things from my childhood, not present in my usual thinking consciousness when and as it chatters today, when and if it chatters today. But remaining still, somewhere, in the vaults of time held in the memory cells of the brain. I remember horses and carts on the streets. One came with particular delight every Friday to meet the simple needs of a wide eyed boy. A 'rag and bone man' was the name given, an old fellow, who would arrive weekly, and give balloons to any child who paid the price in empty glass jars or old unwanted clothes. I would beg for the required fee from my mother, sometimes it was paid, sometimes, not. I was learning quickly the rewards and disappointments of desire. The ups, and downs of life.
Gas lights lit the streets, and a man would arrive on bicycle, like clockwork, morning and evening, to put them out and to give them life. My first love lived downstairs from me, I think she was a year older than I. Anne Duffy, or Anne Duffin, was her name. The exact surname is not so firmly rooted as other memories of the time. Of course she was not my first love, but how the boy dreamed to kiss the girl, it would occupy his mind incessantly and although they played together on Cobden Street often, he never once told her of his inner hearts wishes. Too much a coward, too unsure to show inner feelings. In retrospect, I suspect she knew, I suspect even, she, felt the same. None, so tender of age, found the courage. And so these young lives lived without meeting a potentially magical moment.
My father owned the block of flats we lived in, he was a businessman who worked so hard, likely caught within a dual energy. Running away from horrific life experiences met during the second world war, (which were horrific), running towards what he considered the necessary security for his life (money), and to raise his family, of which, the young boy, who became the man typing these words, was the most junior member.
Anne’s family rented the flat immediately one floor below. The boy was so troubled when her parents decided to move elsewhere, they had been as thick as thieves together for years, playing on the streets together daily, after school and every weekend. As she came out of her flat to say goodbye that fateful day, the boy could not even speak to her. He stood awhile, head down, and walked on, shaking. The first meeting of a great sadness in life. It was the last day these two paths which had crossed so often, would ever cross. When he came home from school, she was gone. The boy was learning more than he was being told about. Learning that life is an ever changing thing.
A post office stood at the foot of Cobden Street and the man who ran the post office killed himself by placing his head in the oven of a gas cooker. This was much discussed by the young lad's parents for several days. Apparently, he had been stealing money from the post office, was under investigation, facing prison and this was his way of dealing with it. His death did not mean much to the boy, other than a curiosity, far less than the departing of his downstairs desire he had never had the courage to meet.
Time marched on, and a day can last a decade in so young a life. Anne’s departure was soon out of mind. A favourite place to visit alone was a graveyard at the bottom of the street, standing on the corner of Lochee Road. Some graves here, were hundreds of years old. One in particular led the boy to return repeatedly to lay on the grave itself, time after time. The reason this particular corner of death was so appealing was that this grave held an inscription which filled the boy's life with a mystery to be understood. “Not dead, only sleeping” were the words long carved into the tombstone. He listened patiently for any sound of life within. A breath, a cough, an awakening, if sleeping, perhaps a snore? Yet, in spite of what had been carved in stone, this grave remained as silent as the God he had been led to pray to in his life.
A cinema was a close walk from home, a small flat shared with brother, sister, father, mother and Gran. Though father was mostly absent, he worked from early morning to late evening, in a shoe shop on the corner directly under the flat. No toilet. Toilet shared on the stairs, between other families. The entrance price at the cinema was a coin I cannot now remember the value of, or again, glass jam jars. Glass jars held a value in Scotland during those young years, now mostly long forgotten, though still seemingly accessible.
There was a children's playground at the top of Cobden street. The boy had a peculiar habit of standing very close to tall tenement buildings, he would get a feeling the building was moving forwards from doing so, almost falling over, in some way this brought satisfaction. It was a repetitive delight to his life. The question of why objects appeared small at distance compared to close location greatly occupied a growing mind for a period of time. 'But why mum'?, he would ask repeatedly, much to the frustration of his mother.
The matter of God, as explained, seemed rather impossible also. 'God made everything, including you', the boy was frequently told. Mum said so, Dad said so, even Mr. Nimmo, the protestant vicar, the boss of the whole church, even he said so. The boy's father had a close relationship to Mr. Nimmo, which lasted a lifetime. At Sunday School, Mr Nimmo, said so a lot. God was my creator, the creator of all. The boy questioned this a lot, not to Mr. Nimmo, but quietly, silently, it occupied his young mind. It became something of great concern, which after a time was abandoned, for it all seemed so illogical.
'If God created all' the boy reasoned…..then WHO, created God?' 'Where did God come from?' The boy followed this line of questioning, and came to a startling conclusion to his young life. 'There should be nothing! Nothing, should exist!'
For one it seems keeps travelling down a repetitive conundrum, when one questions the creator and the created. 'God made all, then who made God?', becomes 'who made the who which made God' becomes 'who made the who, who made the who, who made God, who made me and all the other stuff?' It all made the young boys head hurt and dizzy after a while, although gave birth to the seeds of an insight which would not be resolved for such a long time. 'Nothing should be'.
It would take many years, many twists and turns of life, many pleasures and pains, many gains and hardships, before the wisdom of that juvenile insight would come to be more clearly understood.
Isn’t it interesting, all truly does come from nothing. Here I am now, beginning the fourth page on my digital screen, and all these words have come from nothing. Memories long forgotten, until they are remembered. A story is coming from nowhere, memories of the past. And as you read this story, the reading of this story, becomes part of your past. We can share so much, other than what is most needed.
The greatest truth is there is nothing. Although the boy did not realise at such a young tender age he had stumbled upon perhaps the most important discovery anyone could ever come to in life.
The truth is, there is nothing.
And this nothing, is everything.
All numbers are held in the number zero. Space holds all the planets suspended. Nothing, emptiness, or space, is what gives birth to everything, and everything dies back into nothing. And so, you can say there is a creator, a 'God', a 'higher principle', and I nod my head in agreement with you.
But that is only one way of looking. A view.
For if that higher principle, that God, that creator is nothing? Then does it even really exist? What exists are the manifest forms born out of that nothing. Of which we are each a part. A named part, a categorised part. An ever changing part, for the nature of life is this, it is ever changing.
Ever ending, and starting over again.
Our society is drunk on 'things'. On the acquisition of things, and this is apparently the highest of callings. This, and the stuff called 'money'. This, and giving birth to always more new things, which we call being 'creative', but truly is nothing other than a hard slap in the face to that which can only ever be creative, which is nothing.
No face to slap, is a face without pain, so no harm done.
The creative, is all forgiving, for nothing indeed carries all, but it also lets all go. Our ‘creation’ man's 'creation', is a process of invention, and the two are markedly different in nature, 'Invention' comes from the past, from what is already known, a modified configuration of what came before. A modified continuity of what came before. Creation on the other hand, is always new, and so has never been seen before.
So many worship God. Or Gods. The practice never remained with me, though I hold among my closest friends a Catholic priest today and I still like to visit a Church. I enjoy the atmosphere. The silence, the theatre of it all, the incense, the costume, the quality of the air where many have worshipped over long durations of time.
In India there are still hundreds of millions of Gods. A global supermarket for Gods. I fear we worship more out of habit and belief than we do out of any understanding. I also fear the churches, mosques and temples which ingrain ideologies into brains at such a young age have little understanding at all of where creation truly lies. I wonder if creation, represented by the word 'God', has any interest in being worshipped at all.
As we are societally categorised, as we are named, as we are led into the path to take in life to become more than what we have already been told we are, led to be a Doctor a Lawyer, a street sweeper, a Welder, or something of far lesser value, perhaps a politician or a prince, we are led into a system of measurement of values and the weights which measure these value are words.
“Me” becomes an incredibly important word, to everyone who uses it. Regardless of other words they come to see themselves as. 'You' is not so important a word, as 'me', although this is also dependant on which ‘you’ this word is referring to. If 'you' are 'my' wife, or 'my' husband, 'my' lover or 'my' friend, then this 'you', may well carry some additional weight, in the eternal measurement of the word. Most of 'you' however, are not so valuable. Most, are indispensable things. Most of 'you', 'I' care nothing about at all. In the main, with rare diversions from this societally learned trend.
'Money' is a word most of us care a lot about. 'Power', holds great value for some. 'Belief' for some is incredibly valuable and yet for others, holds little to no value at all. Words and the implications behind them are the worlds we live within. The worlds we live within is a world of words. And beyond this world of words, this world of 'things', lies another. The world, of no-thing. The world of nothing.
This other world is a world seen by every child but given no relevance to by any adult, for the adult has become blind to this world, the adult gives no value to nothing, it is valueless. Even non existent. And so the poor child learns in time to dim his connection to this world to the point of complete blindness and to come to meet the demands of his parents and the society he has been born into. Nothing does not exist. The value of life, is found in things. And things, are words. 'Nothing' is a word with apparently no destination. I may be a biological freak, I may be insane, but I have come to find the greatest of all appreciations in life, for nothing. For no-thing.
This 'nothing', I have come to see, holds the form of all material things, which are limited manifestations of itself.
What the hell does all that mean? Perhaps, I am insane. It is more common I fear than recognised.
There is great difficulty in describing the ground of life which in nature has no relationship to words, which cannot be categorised, which can never be made known. More than a difficulty, this is an absolutely impossible task. So I make no apologies for my clumsy attempt to do so, for by virtue of attempting to do so, no attempt could be anything other than clumsy. So I will hobble along this road of impossibility, sounding like a fool screeching out sounds which have no relevance whatsoever to a discerning ear.
Our lives have been led to place value in words and words represent things. We have even turned 'creation' into a 'thing', and the word used to represent that 'thing', is 'God'. All 'things' are divided, and divisible, which is the purpose of all words, to divide, to measure, to judge, to value. These all have a place and that place is the marketplace, but what value do such words have in the understanding of all of life? None, for all of life, is not a word.
Try describing what you feel when you ‘fall in love’ in words. Even simpler, yet as infinitely difficult to this, try describing the colour red, to a blind man. Try writing in words the depth of feeling stirred when listening to Bocelli and Brightman’s ‘Time to Say Goodbye’, to a man whose life is void of hearing. Life, is met through the senses in all its majesty. From a silent mind. A silent mind, has the only capacity, to meet nothing. The mind, is always of the same nature of the Universe it perceives.
Words cannot capture this 'nothing'. this no-thing, they can point. But the sign post to an oasis in a desert, is not capable of quenching any man’s thirst.
Life is not found in words. Words are images which represent life. Full stop. You have been led to believe otherwise, as you have perhaps been led to believe that a ‘thing’ named 'God' exists outside of all creation consisting of space and matter. And you have been led to believe you can find meaning of life in words.
You have been led to see life as your parents saw life, who were led to see life as their parents saw life, who were led to see life as………I think perhaps you get the picture. And this is all so very sad, and that sadness is not held in the quality of the word sad.
It is a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions.
We seek meaning in life from a mind overpopulated, crammed with words. Words are images, and images are things and thoughts are movements within the matter of the brain. And so we may believe in the 'spiritual' side of life, however, our roots could not be more firmly established in the material. Actually not even in the material but in the division and the weighing of the conceptual value of the material.
And so our brains are ever occupied. And attached. And greedy. And possessive, and so jealous, limiting and life destroying.
We have no space, because we are so cram full, of words.
Words are necessary, and have a very valuable place. Without required psychic ability, I would have no other means to communicate this gathering of words to tell you the story unfolding. But words are things, and too many things in any size of room makes the room rather unappealing. Difficult to navigate. Space and matter in balanced measure are what makes life possible. We have been encouraged to always live within the material side of life, and we look at space as though it does not even exist, which is such despairing folly.
Space is infinite in nature, and matter is always limited. Space is what gives beauty to all. And we imagine it does not even exist. We are correct in saying it is 'nothing'. We are dreadfully misleading ourselves, if we look upon nothing, as being of no consequence.
Our world needs a new kind of people in it today. It needs people with space. Too many are crammed full of their ideas, limited in vision, by fears, jealousies, longings, depressions, anxieties, the constant seeking of pleasure for no other reason than to continue a feeling of pleasure. We are pleasure addicts, pleasure driven and so pain receiving. For fear, and hurt are the other side of the coin of pleasure. Don’t take my word for it, watch your own life. If you can.
For to watch demands space. And a brain full of words and desires, fears and pleasures, is a brain without any space. Space is found in silence. And this is perhaps the greatest blessing of all, to meet a silent mind. For as the silence and space of this universe, which are two words for aspects of the same thing, (which is nothing at all), is the nature of universal creation which has the power to hold the planets suspended, as a silent mind has the power to hold all of life. And so to care for all of life. Void, of restless, chattering self.
An empty cup is useful vessel. A full one, of little practical ongoing use.
Never seek change. And never accept what anyone tells you to do. Certainly, including me. Without questioning and seeing the reason why.
Stay where you are, and begin to look.
This watching, if diligently participated in, not 'practiced' which is a mechanical employ seeking a future reward, is perhaps the beginning of a reconnection to space, as common to the young child as it is so alien to the life of a societally conditioned adult.
The reward is in the action itself, not in anywhere it may lead to. A musician who plays for the delight of the sound of his instrument, may be a wonder to behold, another, who plays for coin, or notoriety, too often, falls flat.
If you can watch the crammed chattering inner nature of your mind, (which is not truly 'your' mind, for we all have the same, but let’s not go there at the moment), if you can watch freely, then you will begin to bring a certain space into your life. This is essential, for you cannot see freely without the freedom to look, and freedom to look, demands you are not otherwise occupied.
With diligent application, and a certain level of stubborn persistence in the understanding of the absolute need that we human beings bring true order to our conflicted and meaningless lives, you may, in physical time, come to find that words, may be put down, and you may delight to find an ability to meet life in silence. And this silence may be the birth of love for all, from all, which may be what you truly are. What you were before society led you to believe you were a collection of words. In this there may be great beauty and there may be death.
The ending of the mind so previously occupied, is the beginning of the mind meeting space. Meeting nothing. As a child is born with such capacity naturally, prior to turning the world into words, and to dividing the wholeness of life, (and so the holiness of life), into things.
It is four o'clock n the morning now, for two hours by the clock I have been typing. Birds are beginning to chatter outside, and the sky is beginning to turn lighter. But these are only words describing the indescribable nature of life, met in silence. A new day is dawning. A day which has never been before and which will never be repeated. For this is the nature of life and death. Constant change.
Met by a quiet mind. Met by no one at all.
Hello to all, I am a 60 year old man who has spent the best part of his life studying the teachings of J.Krishnamurti. My name is Henryk. I am rather unimportant, although what I talk about on these pages, has great importance. Particularly today, in this dark world, led by men of infinite wealth, unfortunately without the intelligence to match. My work here stands on the shoulders of that of J.Krishnamurti. Without this man's passion and great life understanding, this website would never have existed. His effect on my own life has been immeasurable. A man of infinite vision and wisdom, who spent over 60 years of his life travelling the world and discussing life and societal problems. Krishnamurti passed away in the 1980s. Anyone interested in the nature of discussion in the content of this site, will likely find great interest in the work of Krishnamurti. Hundreds of videos may be found on YouTube. There is a link above dedicated to his work to which new content is planned to be regularly added. The beauty of truth in life, is that it is identical for each one of us. Truth is the place we all come to meet in unity. And truth belongs to no man. Only pointless opinions, divisive, traditional, educated into and gathered by us, may be claimed as ownership. The change in our world so desperately needed this day, is within us, not external to our lives. All man's actions begin in the area of human thinking, it is this needs understood and brought to revolution. Thanks for taking the time to visit, a few posts are being added to the site weekly at the moment, when I find time. If you would like to support the work here, you can do so from the price of a cup of coffee each month, contributors are invited to online discussions. If you would like to contribute, our Patreon page may be found at the following address: www.patreon.com/rainbow_warriors.