Nothing is lost.
No one is lost.
The protection and promotion of a “me” that never was naturally drops away as the belief in that impossible being dissolves.
Sure, we’ll find pockets of that felt belief, long after the narrative element is gone. Doesn’t mean we failed, just that a patch of conditioning is still active and troublesome.
But, more and more, we rest in this simple knowing that we aren’t what we learnt we were.
We’ve identified with that imaginary self for so long, it might seem at first that there is no “I”. But what is ego but a sense of “myself” in the world? Rather than deny this sense, let it return home. So that the sense of “myself” returns to the “I” we always were, are, will be.
“I” is that which is hearing, seeing, tasting, touching and smelling. “I” is that which weaves silence into words. “I” is the simple knowing of it all.
We notice what remains is expansive and intimate. Not comforting, but all-embracing. Not static, but dynamic stillness. Not calm, but true peace.
Why would I reject a single impression of myself, whether a whispered thought or a face in the crowd? How could I chose one form over another, any more than the cloud rejects any shape of itself?
Why would I refuse a preference for forests over beaches, for lemons over mango, for poetry over instruction?
Why would I turn away from that roar for peace, for freedom, for love?
How can I? There is only this. This apparently fragile beauty, made of pure love. This turbulent, confusing, brokenness we call life, dissolving into wholeness. And this is, expansively and intimately, my own true Self.
Without limit, boundary, restriction or lack, I am.