Self Knowledge

We listen with hope and fear; we seek the light of another but are not alertly passive to be able to understand. If the liberated seems to fulfill our desires we accept him; if not, we continue our search for the one who will; what most of us desire is gratification at different levels. What is important is not how to recognize one who is liberated but how to understand yourself. No authority here or hereafter can give you knowledge of yourself; without self-knowledge there is no liberation from ignorance, from sorrow. – J. Krishnamurti, The Book of Life

Rediscovering a more comprehensive awareness of what I am has taken me beyond what I had been informed that I am. That information, I have discovered, has been limited by thoughts that have been focused on external information. It has been a fragmented quality of knowing, with many gaps, that has left me with great doubt and no alleviation of the sense of being separated from something that is of my essence. It has included a never-ending sense that what I had become or what I had come to perceive myself to be was incomplete.
In later years there has been a loosening of effort aimed at perfecting and covering over what I did not like of myself as well as a reduction in the constant search for completion. It has been replaced by a more direct experiencing of life and knowing that seems to be more sweeping in its way that allows for a more authentic sense of being. All this has transcended a dependency on thought although it remains ongoing in changes that it brings, one of those being an ever-increasing intuitive awareness that how we come to relate to death is fundamental in how we live. – Gord

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. – Dylan Thomas

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