Shorts
Every society or civilization is founded on myth. It is not the power of truth but of myth that keeps the culture alive. The first liberation is to free oneself from these constructions.
Freedom
It is the inner drive, a surge of being that overpowers the conditions of us being in whichever states. This is not a judgment upon something, this is not a philosophy or politics. We do not explore freedom, it is the other way around. It is the freedom that has found us and freedom will keep finding all the new forms.
Potter
No matter how good the potter, he still needs good clay for pottery. No matter how good the clay, he still needs to beat it and hammer it till it is ready. And finally, when the pottery is made, nobody admires the clay but says, what an amazing potter.
Only when you are ready to die, seek for what you can become. And when you are reborn, it will not be a newer version of yourself. An oak tree is not a newer version of an acorn.
Old man and houses
Old man loved building houses. He hated the engineers and he taught the woodworkers and the stoneworkers. He did not like others telling him how to build a house. He built houses five times more than Milarespa did. For every time, he saw imperfection in his creation. He was his own Marpa. And he invoked Kali in between these constructions. Sometimes he summoned her while the construction was ongoing, but mostly it was in between.
And the realization dawned. The perfect house, he said, does not need a roof. And he took out the roof. And he took out the windows and the doors. For he saw no point of the doors. And he broke down the walls, for why would a good house need walls. And finally old man sat in samadhi in his perfect house. He soaked his body with scorching heat and drenched himself in the rain. Neither did the cold of the winter deter him. And he took his samadhi when all alone. Old man had come to the realization that he was the foundation for both form and emptiness.
The Tree
It was a tree till the day they decided to cut it and turn it into wood. They cut it further and sold it in the market: after all, it was a precious wood. I did get a piece of it, not as wood but a statue of Narasimha, Man-lion, a reverse Sphinx. I do not know what happened to the rest of it but a part was turned into a decorated window and another into sarangi to sing folklore embedded with history.
A ritualist came and installed life in the statue and ever since, the statue became a deity. They installed the window for people to admire for the artwork and it became a museum piece. A good musician purchased the sarangi and the instrument, they say, sings alone the rhythms of the cosmos.
It was a middle aged tree with a couple hollow branches. It just was and had no meaning when as a tree. Being turned into wood was not the discovery of meaning either. It was nonetheless necessary. After all, the wood-worker could not have made so many objects while as a tree.
They say trees do not feel pain. We will have to ask this to the trees. But the meaning the tree discovered, the new becomings that unfolded the meaning of being for the tree is not for the tree itself. No meaning has ever been for itself. There always is a marketplace for the meaning to be discovered. Every time a saw runs through the chest of a tree, there is meaning waiting to unfurl. When the tree stops being a tree, stops having meaning for itself, abnegates its subjectivity and becomes a piece of wood, it becomes meaningful for so many. After all, I love the statue of Narasimha.