Facts and the Lying Factors That Make Them.

The idea of a 'fact' is an interesting thing. Generally it is based on sensory perception. Often it is based on experience, especially if it is shared experience, or common understandings. But just because something is commonly understood doesn't make it a fact. It's just assumed to be a fact and then only among those who have agreed to it. Sometimes one comes to a fact through reason. Mathematics has also provided us with many facts. That said, which is more of a fact; a house that stands in front of you or the space that exists between all of the atoms that compose the house?

One day the house will be gone. What is the house then? Where does the fact of the house reside? ...in memory? But the spaces that were there, do they prove to be more of a fact than the house ever was?

Yes, there are temporary facts. It's an observable fact that the Sun is above you in the sky during the day. If clouds obscure the Sun you still know it is there. Still, at night the Sun is still in the sky isn't it?

What I'm getting at here is; are facts reality or is reality something else altogether? Do we see what we think we see or do we see what we expect to see? Is what we see a fact of vision or is it an interpretation of the mind? Could it be that everything is in fact made out of mindstuff? Is the universe mental? Some might be thinking at this point that 'I' am mental. But there is a great deal of difficulty inherent in attempting to discuss this sort of thing. One has to talk around about. One has to infer and construct fencing to contain the image. The image is very elusive.

Talking about cars is one thing. Talking about the idea of powered motion is another. Discussing the origin of the item and the process of it's precipitation into form is yet another. Where does everything come from? ...ideas? Where do ideas come from? ...the mind? We are back to the mind.

And here is an interesting question. Are there many minds or is there but one mind that is accessed by all? The idea of a personal mind implies endless conflict with other personal minds ...and we see that all round. We see the conflicts of perception and preference. We see the conflicts of belief and pre-disposition. We note how environment and conditioning affect perception. At no time in this world has there been common agreement on the things we live and die for. Could it be that we live and die for nothing? Could death itself be no more than the place where our personal illusions encounter truth? Could the truth be that there are no personal minds and that when our idea of a personal mind encounters the reality of the single mind we are swallowed up in it?

So, what would seem to be the saner route? ...forging ahead with your personal baggage amidst the millions of commuters going who knows where? ...or, letting go completely of all things personal and falling back into the one mind? -even while carrying out the seeming personal acts. The personal mind doesn't seem to fare well. It certainly suffers here in this realm of endless conflict with the other minds. The one mind goes on and on, containing a constant procession of new personal minds on their way to becoming history. And that history continuing until the next seasons leaves overlays the last.

Think if you will of the names that remain. Out of the billions upon billions of names, which names spring to mind? Usually they are the names of great villains or those remembered as heroes. They are the names of religious leaders and singular artists. They say there was a culture known as Atlantis. Surely this culture, if it existed, had it's Shakespeares and Mozarts, it's Mohammed's and it's Christ's. Can you recall a single one? The covering leaves have grown exceedingly thick. Gurdjieff, those strange Scientologists and The Urantia Book (do not drop this one on your foot) speak of cultures that predate Atlantis by greath lengths of time.

But this mind that contains it all remains. It remains anonymous, without qualities; except those given it by the personal mind which, more often than not, is unaware of it.

I think of this mind as something like the snows on the high mountains, the pure math of thought. When the snow melts it runs down into the valleys and creates a riot of color and confusion. White light shot through a prism manifests the seven rays. Music also has interesting comparisons...do-re-me-fa-so-la-ti....that's seven isn't it? Then there are the seven planets of the ancients. Why there are even seven days in the week. It seems that there is some kind of a formula, some sort of metaphysical construct but we are not clear about it all.

If there is one mind and if apprehension of this mind is the purpose of our existence, ...then....suddenly suffering becomes understandable. Think of the one mind as a mother with many children. The children run hither and yon. They fall down. They get dirty. They crawl under the house. They climb on top of the house. They fight. They laugh. They get frightened and they get angry. They cry out for the mother. She would keep them with her always but the child is willful and wants to go out, to see what it might find. What does it find? What does it know?

So, essentially, it seems that suffering is a product of desire. It comes either through the lack of the thing desired, the efforts made to obtain it, or the result of possessing it.

The facts as we see them are unique to our personal perspective; some of them are shared. Some have been shared for so long they are just accepted as so and yet often prove not to be. Fables tell us much.

I think the personal mind is a fable, less true than the fables told to children, far less true than the actual intent of the fables. Maybe we only think we are who we think we are. Maybe that person doesn't even exist. Maybe that is just a place where the one mind got formed into a temporary locus, receeding even while we view it. Surely this is the heartbreak of personal love as well as the redemption of the heart that seeks to carry the love beyond. Surely this is the hearbreak of every perishable and passing thing. What do you hold on to? Maybe you don't. Maybe it is holding on to you.

You're all a pack of cards.