Sometimes I feel I am made of witness (other times, not so much)

Sometimes I feel I am made of witness . . . radiant knowing, unboundaried, yet simultaneously local; dynamic, in flux, and very, very particular; a singular expression of . . . bigness.

Other times, I shrink to the size of this sack of red meat, the bones and sinews, this face, these hands, and (watch out!) this personhood with its preferences and characters.

I lock once more into the world and me . . . solid, ineluctably solid, and all of an unsurmountable twoness.

The first experience—widening, knowing—feels more true, more unmitigated, feels "unconditioned" or less conditioned.

And yet, for me at least, I most often have to scaffold myself into that bigness . . .

I need time on my hands . . . time on the cushion . . . some hours a day . . . for some days at a time . . .

And I need a framework, a dharma—that invitation to vastness.

Maybe faith, too . . .

But experience #2—that bounded dichotomy . . . well, all I have to do is float downstream . . . check my email, scroll Google News, work a bit too much, and think the culture's thoughts.

It's funny, right?

The boundless unconditioned is tied to some very special conditions.

At least for me. At least for now.

So I spend my days building the foundations, laying the groundwork, digging out rocks and putting down palettes.

I forget. Then remember. Then forget again.

I long for the expanse, then realize it's right here.

It's right here! It's right here. For the love of blue sky, where else could it be?