Consider the radical idea that everything that exists is right. We know that it's right because it exists; we know that it should be here because it is.
What if every act of your life was supposed to happen exactly the way it did? How do we know that it was supposed to happen that way? Because it did.
What if Reality itself were the ultimate arbiter of what is "right" and "wrong," of what is "good" and "bad," of what is supposed to exist and what isn't? We know that in some sense it's "good" simply because it's here. Do we know the ultimate outcome or effect of anything?
How do we know the sky is supposed to be blue? Because it is. How do we know the grass is supposed to be green? Because it is. How do we know that winter is supposed to be cold? Because it is.
Now let's go to some more difficult ones. How do we know that our lover was supposed to act on their attraction to someone else? Because they did. How do we know that we were supposed to experience pain as a child? Because we did. How do we know that anxiety was supposed to show up today? Because it did. That's how we know.
It doesn't mean that we condone pain or suffering when we see it, but rather, that we're no longer arguing with the what-is-ness of reality.
If we know that everything whatsoever is God, and God is Good, there's nothing more that we need to know.
What would happen if we totally dropped our resistance to everything being the way it is? Supposed we had no concept of how things "should" be?
Our mind steps in right about now and says, "But then everything would be chaos, or go to ruin." But would it? Can we really know that?
Imagine: This vast, inconceivable Process produces us and then we turn around and face this vast Process with our little 3-pound brain and say, "You know, you got this universe 98% right, but let me fix the 2% for you." O-kay.
If we cease our quarrel with reality, it doesn't mean that we lay back and become passive—though it doesn't mean the opposite either. Our actions then become quite unpredictable, because we're simply following the inner guide—and there's no predicting where it will go.
If we're feeding the poor or working on the environment or working to bring peace somewhere, or whatever, we may very well continue to do those things—or not, there's no predicting—but with a lot less stress inside.
How willing are we to have the universe go the way it goes? How much willingness do we have? How willing are we to have Existence show up in this form or that form?
If sadness shows up inside, are we willing to be in love with it? If something we label "bad" shows up outside, are we willing to be in love with the fact that it exists, that it's part of Existence? It doesn't mean that we condone "bad" things, but simply that we stop resisting and arguing with what-is, and then see what develops from that clearer place.
Suppose we had no idea in our head, no idea at all, about how this should be or that should be—how would we act? It doesn't mean that we have the opposite ideas. Rather, imagine we simply didn't have any ideas at all about any of it—how Mary "should" behave, or how the stock market "should" behave, or how a romantic partnership "should" look, or how nations "should" behave, etc., etc.? How would we be? How would we act? Perhaps with more freedom?
A true story:
A sufi master, Bayazid, and his followers knocked on the gates of a village one night. They were tired, cold and hungry; it was raining and they were wet. The village refused them entrance. Bayazid started praising God.
One of his followers said, "Now you have gone too far. We are cold, wet, hungry and you are praising God?" Bayazid said, "I must praise Him, because he takes care of my needs so perfectly. Tonight I need to be cold; tonight I need to be hungry; tonight I need to be wet. He takes care of my needs so perfectly."
There was someone in love with existence as-it-is.
A second true story:
A renowned Zen master was falsely accused of fathering a child by a young woman. The villagers went to him and said, "We were wrong about you; you are shameless. Moreover, you'll have to take care of the baby." The Zen master simply said, "Is that so?"
The master took care of the baby as best he could. Since his reputation was now in tatters, he had to beg for milk every day to feed the child.
Sometime later, the young woman confessed that the Zen master was not the father of the child after all. The villagers went to the master again: "We were wrong; we're so sorry! You're wonderful! And by the way, we'd like the baby back." The master, as he handed back the baby, replied, "Is that so?"
"Peace immediately follows surrender," says the Bhagavad Gita. I wonder why it says that.
—jim sloman, 9/27/02 for 11/24/02
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