When all is said and done, it is in the way we do the little things each day which prepares us for any big things that can come our way. It is breathing into whatever arises with an unselfconscious equanimity, seeing all as a gift, no matter its nature. This equanimity is not a state of being, an experience, or something that comes and goes. It is what precedes perceptual awareness, what penetrates all ensuing awareness, and extends beyond awareness itself, as a priori. 

A natural condition of reality.

It is not dependent on circumstances, or conditions, being conditionless. 

It was before and beyond time.

This peace, which is beyond all that the senses reveal, requires a suspension of belief in the limited view of  the senses as the accepted filter of understanding.

By relying only on this erroneous conviction of being a sense-bound creature of nature, we cannot see ourselves, or anything else, except it be a reflection of our own shifting moods, opinions, judgments and presumptions.

By accepting, even theoretically, that we are far more than this bundle of disarranged emotions and flitting thoughts, we open the door of being to the mystery unity of all things in the singularity of the human/Divine.

So, in order to transcend the play of the gunas, rajas, tamas and sattva (anger, restlessness, sloth, resistance and peace) we have to find a permanent residence in the chamber of the Most High, who dwells within the smallest space – that point of sublime stillness in the mystery of the human heart – and from that sanctity we can view the human drama knowing the secret that the play of the gunas is disarmed by a lucid loving heart, disengaged by a mind faithful to more often than not directing attention to the abode of bliss whilst conscientiously making beds, washing dishes carefully, paying bills mindfully, and cooking delicious meals and continually weeding the garden of discontent as worship to an invisible abiding Joy.

We cannot judge the spiritual fruits of others lives or view the secret joy which sustains them through the multiple distractions of the waking drama. We can only order our own mortal unruliness in the face of certain death, so that we too may write with sacred import upon the scattered leaves of the autumn of our days. 

Sewing seeds of reasonless contentment.

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