“Incarnation is nothing more than a thought. A thousand incarnations are but a thousand thoughts. And this amazing miracle of a mirage we call the world reappears as it was before, but now you know. That’s why you usually have a good laugh, because you realize that all your struggles were made up. You conjured them up out of nothing — with a thought that was linked to another thought, that was then believed, that linked to another thought that was then believed. But never could it have been true, not for a second could it have actually existed. Not ever could you have actually suffered for a reason that was true — only through an imagination, good, bad, indifferent. The intricacies of spiritual philosophy and theologies are just a thought within Emptiness.”
First off, we need to remember that, in regard to any proposition, doctrine, principle, or belief, it is all conceptual – all of it. Those who suggest otherwise are merely conceptualizing. It is what the human brain does. Any and all meaning is dependent on various applicable conditioning factors which the brain sorts out into concepts and then superimposes on experience after the fact.
Of course, we are not the brain, but that remarkable organ does come in handy as long as we are appearing in these skin suits. Without the conceptual faculty, we’d be pretty helpless in terms of navigating the objective world. The popular strategy propounded by the various esoteric wisdom schools of “going beyond concepts” is itself a concept, and really only relevant at a specific level of spiritual endeavor in which one has exhausted the intellectual component of the search. In the meantime, why try to escape concepts? All we need do is see them for what they are and discard them when they have served their purpose. They are props in the play — that is all.
As for myself, irrespective of whatever temporary states, views, emotions, experiences, imaginations, or subtle perceptions arise in the course of life, I have never been able to separate myself from that mystical condition of being essentially clueless in regard to any and all of them. This recognition took a while to sink in, but it is frankly undeniable. Oh sure, I could usually grab a handy concept in retrospect and superimpose it on the field of chaos that passes for this human experience, and it might have even made some eccentric sense. I might have even paused in awe at the pseudo-clarity that this ingenious mind can conjure up from its impressive storehouse of self-confirming interpretations on filtered perceptions, despite the fact that a frog in a well knows nothing about the birds in the sky.
Regardless, and to the point: that famously perpetual search for meaning, so earnestly pursued by the philosophers, poets, and mid-life crisis enthusiasts — who said we actually needed such a ponderous thing? Did it do any of them any enduring good – the meaning makers — to have some reassuring meaning? Were they able to re-direct the fluids swishing about in their neural viaducts in such a way that simply taking another breath amounted to something more significant than a reflexive impersonal automaticity?
And what’s the harvest from that great endeavor, that noble quest for meaning? An endless circus of competing personal, religious, and political belief systems, rife with war and conflict, all beginning when we think we know something, and then convince ourselves of its unassailable import and meaning. Those who think that they know something usually tend to be contentious, especially when their assumed knowledge is challenged by a contrary “knower” with their own competing arsenal of meanings.
The truly humble ones don’t habitually find themselves in conflict, because they understand right from the get-go that they don’t know, and so they have no complaint, nothing to defend or leave home to go to war for, and certainly no presumption of attainment in the meaning-making department. As Tulku Urgyen noted: “When we realize that all the achievements of the six realms of samsara are futile, insubstantial, and meaningless, we lose our appetite for them.”
It’s only when we think we know something — that we are in possession of some particular meaning that in turn demands assertion and protection — that things get testy. We can get pretty reactive when our carefully constructed meanings are challenged, is it not so? After all, our meanings are often essential to our self-images, and despite our grafted-on spiritual idealism to the contrary, those colorful stories of fascinating “me” won’t go down without a fight (or flight)!
Granting our personal story some sense of fanciful meaning often leads to a humorless sense of self-importance, which in turn requires a lot of care and feeding. Furthermore, defending our personal sense of meaning implies taking offense at anyone who might challenge said cherished meaning, and so we set ourselves up for a life of being offended by this, that, or the other.
If somebody or some collection of somebodies is moved to bicker and fuss about whether the so-called ego is an illusion or not, whether we are going to be annihilated or ascended or not, whether one religion or political party is superior to another or not, or whether enlightenment is a many splendored thing or not, let them have at it. Really, what concern is it of ours?
Nevertheless, most of us chronically go about the business of manufacturing and modifying meanings morning, noon, and night, like little cranial factories that never shut down for the week-end so that everyone can rest, and maybe have a little meaningless fun on Saturday Night. Moreover, when one meaning is outgrown and discarded, we are quick to find another with which to carry on the facade of security and pretense. Heaven forbid we find ourselves with a spare moment unburdened by some arbitrary and self-confirming “meaningfulness” in our lives!
On the other hand, we need not go to an extreme and make “meaning” the bad guy. If one feels the need to tote around a little meaning in their lives, they could do a lot worse than follow this excellent pointer offered by our old friend Rumi: “Nothing is meaningful except surrendering to love. Do it.”
Those who claim that the only reason for living is to get out of life as fast as possible actually have it backwards. In their amnesia, they seem to forget that this world is a stage filled with magical props, and we are the actors playing all the roles. Most importantly, they forget that the reason they incarnate here in the first place is precisely to have this human experience, in whatever form it might take, and that is its meaning, its purpose — simply to be here, as it is, as we are. Nothing need be added to that, and there is no need to run off chasing some ideal of “liberation” from life when we still haven’t come to terms with who and what we are, right here and now.
Moreover, the surest way to insure that we will be returned again and again to this classroom is to harbor and fuel some notion of escaping life, for that will merely indicate that we have not yet been able to properly appreciate the gift and opportunity this circumstance represents to plumb our own depths and discover what kind of stuff we’re made of. We chose this, we came to have this human experience, and that is enough. That is the gift — just to have this, be this, live this.
The truly free are those who recognize that their freedom is not elsewhere, in some imaginary future where they can at last exhale and disappear. Meaning or meaninglessness, self or not-self, liberated or bound — all such notions are for the ones who still rely on the logic, reason, and propaganda of man-made religions and philosophies to account for their appearance, and so they build and fortify their own prisons, and wage a war within themselves, because none of that truly satisfies.
After years of ambivalent effort expended on trying to figure it out, I let go of that struggle and realized that I already am and have always been — just as I am – the meaning of myself, with no need or motive to look elsewhere, or to add or subtract anything from whatever that might be. Instead, I find that I’d rather just hum nonsense ditties, let the sky breathe through me, the wind and sun and rain pour through me — all without any particular encouragement or resistance, and certainly without any necessity for some contrived meaning. When it comes right down to it, both meaning and any lack thereof are both flimsy fantasies of interpretation that are superimposed on perception — dreamy smoke rings drifting through space on another Saturday Night in timelessness.