IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, WE KEEP SENDING LITTLE KITES UNTIL A LITTLE LIGHT GETS THROUGH

In the middle of the night, waking up to the sound of wind and some animal howling in the distance, not one usually heard. Waking up and somehow there is this perception or awareness that even that most obvious story is made up; how could anyone be waking up, how could it be the middle of the night, how could it be anything at all?

The animal call sounds plaintive, like a lonesome howl in the darkness. But no doubt, whatever it is---could it be the elusive wildcat? ---is not at all lonesome, and being nocturnal, it is quite at home in the darkness. The Miranda thingie also seems at home in the darkness; she loves the night, along with the grey “dreich” days, more than the bright sunlight. Maybe because in her story she is from a place without a lot of sunshine.

I notice an email from my teenage cousin, a girl who also went mad and suspects this is genetic. But she will agree that genetics is only a story, and words can never even express what is felt and seen, especially as feeling and seeing are not separate. I check the email, always wondering about a family emergency, always sure I would ignore it as no place is home when everyplace is home and home is just a mythical place on the range. Or not.

Danielle has told me that she knows if she’s ever “dying or something” I wouldn’t come home, and she’s fine with that. I suppose that’s true, unless she needed something like an organ or bone marrow transplant to stay alive. Then, I might, as there’s nothing I seem to need. Not body parts, not breath or a heartbeat, not even a life which was never mine.

It seems that walking happened, a few seeming minutes ago, though that is now just an echo of a story floating in what is not even my mind. I have an image of being on a slightly muddy trail with a lantern. Maybe looking for the mysterious voice of the wild creature that has now moved away. Was it ever there at all? Was I ever here at all?

Of course not. I have studied nonduality and know all the right answers. I once had a teacher who would correct papers and write “put it in your own words.” Well, no one has their own words. But sometimes I want to send back passages of a nonduality talk or book and say that to the speaker. I want to ask "how does it feel? How does it seem? I know it’s all for no one, I know no one knows, I know it’s all boundless spaghetti…I mean energy. But in your own words, what would you say?"

But it’s not really an easy question to answer. How it feels is like a feeling I can’t easily name, so that’s an issue. I could make up a name for it, I usually call it love, but it’s not what anyone in my family would recognize as love.

If not love, I can make up a word. I can call it "Udooliam." That’s what life feels like. It would mean as much as reading any other word. I guess you just have to call it “the feeling that can’t be described.” That’s my description. Don’t complain, I’m not a professional speaker, after all. If I was charging people, I’d do a better job.

In the woods, it’s beautifully dark. Not dark like the semi-darkness of a city or even a small town. There’s a waning moon, slivers of light, and a kind of brightness that dances among the trees in the wind. Sometimes there’s a glow, a reflection of moonlight, or a light in the main cabin if Fiona has started cooking before dawn. Once the cabin was all lit up, and it was foggy, and I just saw a glowing, luminous, silver steaming orb floating through the forest. I sometimes used to wonder if what I was seeing was real, but, well, those days are long gone.

Someone messages me that I hadn’t posted in a while and they wondered what I would say next. I wonder, too. Turns out I had nothing to say. But if someone whispers sweet nothings in your ear, it’s really as much as any human can ever share with you. Everything and nothing at all. Love or Udooliam or the unnamed feeling some will now try to imagine, though some of you know it well, even as it can’t really be known. Well, this is why professional nonduality speakers stick to the script, I guess.

The Miranda thingie is going back to sleep she thinks. Perchance to dream, but all there is, is dreaming.

And not even that, my beloveds… ♥