Sometimes I might find myself longing for a better life. Better conditions in which to survive, better conditions in which to thrive. And then I start to look at what I can do to bring about those conditions. And then I complain that I’m having to do so much. And then feel bad (or guilty, or frustrated, or angry or… – insert your repetative negative emotion/s here – ) and want to give up because I can’t do my life anymore!
And then… I look at that phrase and the feeling that goes with it.
I can’t do my life anymore.
What I see is the unquestioned belief that I and life are separate. And I find the emotion/s that the belief seems to cause.
Where is this me that cannot do my life?
When I look I don’t find anything. The one looking cannot look at it/him/her/one-self. When I look, I don’t find me. I find stories about me, facts, memories, ideas, beliefs, thoughts, feelings, emotions, images, judgements, desires, a physical body, sensations. And I know that I am none of those things I find.
And yet it is all embraced in the messy human-being-doing-ness of it all. I am being, being a human doing or human who can’t do.
This is being done!