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A Miracle of Nothingness

by Clarence Pedersen
Tell me please--what do I do when all the games have been played? When all the songs have been sung? When all the books have been written and all the books have been read? What do I do when I have done all this and I have done all that? When dialogue becomes monologue and the monologue slowly disappears into the mists of the Great Silence? What do I do if the omnipresent "why" of existence does not answer my question?

Am I empty then? Or is it that "my cup runneth over"? Or what? And why?

Is there perhaps an informed but unformed reality that lingers a fraction of a micromoment beyond my consciousness? Perhaps a reality that needs expression as it clamors silently for validation? Surely it needs substance.

No! Not so! It needs nothing! I--I am the one doing the needing, the longing, the aching. Reality is my rock. And I am comforted by my belief that, in spite of its nothingness, it is there. But of course this is only a belief. It is not an experience. Still I smile in inner contentment and gratitude when I believe that I feel its touch, when I feel its blessing.

But define it for me, please. What is this whose touch I cannot return? With whom I cannot discuss? And thus I can easily refute it. Yet I cannot refuse it. Whether I call it a dream, or a fantasy, or a moment of wishful thinking--still I cannot refuse it. Why is this? What is this I cannot refuse? Except when it interferes with my daily tasks or pleasures--my outreach to the world. (I am endlessly busy reaching.)

Yet even then I don't refuse it. I am simply unaware of it. It passes me by like a comet in a distant galaxy. Not noticeable. It is beyond my Umwelt--my capacity of awareness. I am oblivious to it.

It cannot be proven. Nor can it be denied. It is as enigmatic as eternity. As senseless as spacelessness. It is in fact nonsense.

And so I leave it in the closet of my consciousness--with the door tightly closed--in pure darkness (where the light is brightest). And every now and then, in a rare unbusied moment, I glance surreptitiously at my closet door, wondering, "Could this be where my answer is hiding? And if so--why?"

But I have misplaced the key, and there is nobody to help me find it. But then perhaps there is nothing to find. A miracle of nothingness. Who knows?

One day, when my mind was empty, I discovered to my surprise that the closet door was never locked, and so I peeked inside and was engulfed with total tenderness. And it was really, really hard not to smile. And feel blessed.

I ask myself, "Will it return? This powerful, all knowing nothingness?" But that's the wrong question. It never went anyplace. How can it return? Go! Open the door again!

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Originally published in the Quest magazine 2000 (May/June issue)
Theosophical Society in America, www.theosophical.org
Reprinted with permission.