• What is the purpose of life? What is your purpose? My purpose?

    It’s a word that is as clichéd as it is important. And one I have wrestled with as much as it has inspired me.

    So often we talk of it as a thing, an ideal we must live up to, a definition we must clarify. And once we find it, then we can get on with living it.

    I don’t think it is a thing. A thing can be found. Like a rock or the village of Ingleton. A purpose as far as I can tell, cannot be found. It is not lying in wait, out of sight, just around the next insightful corner.

    It is an encounter, a posture, a potential, that calls forth what is within you, asking you to give it, to the world outside of you.

    Here’s one story of how I think it plays out…

    Your role in the great play

    Your purpose is to fill your role in the great theatre play of life.

    It is not pre-scripted.

    The great director will not judge your performance. He hasn’t given you lines to deliver like a talking mannequin. There is no correct script you must adhere to.

    But your role is pre-shaped.

    You have been given a name, and a nature. A flavour and a feel. A history and a possible future. You cannot change these contours of the soul.

    And so it is your task to live into your role, unfolding it as you play it. Discovering it as you act it out. Sinking into the original nature of your character as you improvise in the emerging story.

    You must play out the most mysterious of contradictions. Surrendering to the director’s instruction, and creating your own self-generated narratives. You must do both.

    Listen to the whispers

    The one’s that come from beyond you. The ones that are spoken by whatever we call that which is larger than ourselves. This is the director of the play, trying to give us hints and prompts.

    Can you become quiet enough to hear them?

    These directions are not always ones you want to listen to, or follow. They don’t simply lead toward freedom and applause, they lead to the facing of those things that all your addictions are designed to turn you away from. They lead toward the speech that you have the most difficulty uttering.

    And yet it is in those dark encounters that you will truly learn your own nature. The shadowy corners that when faced, lead around the bend, into an awesome and humbling new light.

    Write your own script

    What do you want to say?

    What course does your own heart want to chart?

    It’s up to you. It has not been laid out in some kosmic blueprint. Your chosen movements are not being pulled by some unseen puppet master. You have been given a role in the great improvisation. You have been given the rare gift of spontaneity.

    You must trust the will of your heart. The desire of your own character. How do you want the story to end? And how will you choose to unfold your own plot toward the possibility of that finale?

    The journey is not pre-written. The ending cannot be known before the curtain falls, if it ever does. The point, is not to adhere to what is supposed to happen, but rather to follow the movement of the unfolding story.

    It’s a surprising, twisting and turning discovery. A delightful step, that leads to a challenging leap, that becomes an embarrassing stumble, that recovers into another delightful step.

    And they are your steps to take.

    How will you play?

    You have not been given the lead-role – I’m sorry but you haven’t. You are not the star of the show. But rest assured that is not because you have been passed over for some more impressive performer. It is that there is no lead role. No chosen star.

    This is an ensemble piece. The greatest ever created. A great sprawling epic, played out on the world’s stage, with the most shocking of twists, and the most exquisite of resolutions.

    And no-one knows the ending. Not even the director.

    How will you play?

     

  • It all just came to me, and I realized the truth. My world changed, the heavens opened up, I saw the light. It was beautiful. I was beautiful.

    It’s a mistaken story.

    Transformation is not the euphoria that we think it is.

    Realization can be exquisite. The alethic moment, when what was once hidden, is now revealed. What was once obscured, is now seen.

    “Aahhh.”

    And then there is the consequence of insight—the unpredictable roll of a great change released upon a static body.

    Transformation is not joyful insight. Transformation is what ensues from insight.

    Transformation is the painful shedding of an old skin that no longer fits. Transformation is the shocking realization of looking in the mirror, day after day, and not recognizing the one who stares back at you.

    Transformation is slow, and unpleasant.

    Can you submit to the deepest change?

    To transform is to go beyond your current form, your current shape. It is metamorphosis.

    When you change shape, you hurt.

    The old dies, the new grows.

    Who you considered yourself to be, is not someone you can find anymore. What you assumed would always be true is no longer true.

    “I’m struggling. I don’t really know where I am. It’s all so confusing. I’m anxious, and I don’t really know what’s going on. Nothing seems to be working anymore.”

    It’s not working anymore, because the old things can’t work anymore, when you realize they’re old.

    Transformation has this glittery idealistic reputation. A breakthrough at a weekend workshop. An epiphany during a heightened state. An intense moment of spiritual realization.

    The reality of transformation is dark, confusing and painful.

    Who are you?

    You think you’re this one? Ewan. Who was born in England and likes pecans? You think that’s you?

    You think you’re the eternal one? The one who was here before your parents were born? You think that’s you?

    You are this. This moment. You are the culmination of a thousand lives, brought into this body by a thousand desires. You are this one, a cacophony of selves, loosely tied together with a narrative we call ego.

    You are this one. The one who cannot choose his destiny. The one who does not choose her true name.

    You are a thousand voices, channeled through a single throat. You are a thousand hearts, held by a singular love.

    You think you are the same one as 10 years ago? A month ago? A second ago? You are the one that transforms in every single moment.

    And yet you resist this eternal transformation. You seek to categorize yourself, to define yourself. You form a picture frame around your form.

    “This is me. I’m like this. I’m not like that.”

    It’s a frame you create. One that helps you link together the past memories, with a future possibility. A frame that gives your ever changing nature a sense of sane continuity.

    And when one day, you see the frame you’ve been seeing through, when one day you see the eyes you’ve been seeing with, your security is shattered. You are enveloped by the visceral anxiety of impermanence.

    “I thought I knew who I was. I do not.”

    It is in that moment, that transformation starts to wind its ruthless will around your being. And you will realize you are not who you considered yourself to be…

    You cannot choose this

    The plague is coming. The dead are walking. What was once, will never be.

    And it is into this inevitability that you throw your sense of will.

    You believe you can choose to be transformed? You believe this is a ‘personal development’ that improves you, that gives you more of what you want?

    Transformation is not a choice. It is the great surrender.

    When she comes for you, you have two choices.

    Resist her power, fight for your right to choose, and suffer, immeasurably.

    Or you can bend over and spread your cheeks.

    It may or may not be gentle.

    Part of you is dying. You cannot cheat the reaper.

    Let God have you. You cannot choose his claim on you. You can only choose your acquiescence as He has His way with you.

    He does this from the greatest love you can imagine. He is not punishing you. God no. He is opening you. He is fucking you into the vulnerable and beautiful truth that you dare not admit.

    What are you going to do?

    Struggle? Or spit on your fingers, and help him enter you.

    You have one choice only

    The circle has turned. The rot is setting in.

    That identity you had, where you knew who you were? It’s breaking down. If you try and hold onto it, it will decompose between your very fingers.

    That idea of what was true is turning to dust and clogging up your throat.

    What dies is no longer you. Let yourself fall apart, and you will discover that from the composting remains of your former identity, springs the new shoots of a greater consciousness.

    This is the cycle. Life, into death, into ever changing life, into ever deeper death.

    You have one choice.

    Suffer. Or surrender.

    If you submit to His will, you cannot fuck it up.

    If you do not submit to His will, you cannot fuck it up.

    Yet resistance is optional.

    Where do you still cling to your outmoded sense of entitlement? Where do you still grasp to a concept of fairness, or rightness?

    These are human ideas. Beautiful ideas.

    But now you are in the realm of God. And here there is one choice only.

    How deeply will you allow Him to enter you?

    She loves you.

    Die to Him.