5am Monday morning. One month ’til Christmas and three weeks to moving house.
All this measurement for planning seems inane, arbitrary; part of some busy work we do to fill the spaces where growing, tending and making used to be. For somewhere we remember that even aristocracy was once classless, digging in the dirt for yams or some such thing. Nobody was truly separate in the beginning.
Except there was no beginning. No first man; no first tribe. In non-duality we are all continuations of something in yet another form, and these labels used to draw lines between species, and borders between nations… these arbitrary cultural definitions that tell us we can put that group in a bubble of meanings, and this group in another. It’s all made up. And if that’s true, if the world is a fabricated collection of labels, then how do I know who I am?




