Damn you don’t write anything in your journal for 7 months and then come back with this nugget, it’s like the less you write the better the precision, I have taken the opposite approach
Do you find at this point that this continued awareness of pure intent is the ‘driving force’ behind feeling good?
In times when I can access pure intent consistently then feeling good is effortless, in fact it seems silly to be doing anything but enjoying and appreciating. Then in times when the connection is blocked it seems an uphill struggle to get things going.
So I am constantly in this back and forth of 2 approaches, one is all about ‘me’ continuing to chip away at ‘myself’, it is ‘me’ doing the work and somewhat working from ‘within the human condition’. This approach is epitomised by effort and control.
The second one is about putting ‘me’ and ‘humanity’ to one side and allowing pure intent. This is no longer fixing things from ‘the inside’ but rather it’s like I am side stepping the whole thing.
The thing is they also seem to go hand in hand, because at times I have to roll up my sleeves and chip away at something so that I am willing to allow pure intent. Equally when pure intent is experienced it’s effects will cascade into ‘my’ world and start to shift things about.
But a lot of the times it’s like I am at this fork in the road - do I go into the human condition and tinker around in there OR do I forget about all that business and move towards pure intent.
From the vantage point of actuality all of the ‘inner world’ stuff is completely irrelevant, so I can see why it doesn’t matter if it is ultimately resolved or not. I guess the whole point is that ultimately it cannot be resolved, that you tinker around until you realise that it’s just rotten.
Then the further I move towards actuality the more pointless it seems to entertain any of the real world stuff. Like when Geoffrey wrote about the letter arriving from the leathery armchairs society :
For I had been exploring the unknown continent, its golden cities and living clouds, for weeks, without a word. When some letter found its way to me, its ink faded from the sea voyage, enquiring about matters so home-bound as to appear foreign