There is a miracle with us, next to us, inside of us everyday, and we rarely if ever notice it. That miracle is existence itself. There is something about the “normal” human brain that doesn’t, won’t, can’t see the wonderful impossibility of the universe.
I think the ultimate aim of consciousness is to attune oneself with the miraculous nature of everything: birth, death, trees, building, sex, space, pimples, warts, toenails, emotions, everything. Right now only a very few seem to break out of the trances of their everyday bored routines and obsessive ego building. As a species, we have deeply forgotten the happy absurdity of it all. Wordsworth says, “Getting and spending, we lay waste our power.” The Bible says it thus: we have sold our birthright for a mess of potash.
It is so rare that one comes clean with life that an honest existence could be called a miracle in itself. Especially since we are given such puzzling and often contradictory messages from those who have crossed over to the other side; for example, that one can’t get “there” without effort, yet our efforts are perhaps the biggest blocks to our attainment. We seekers are often left in the uncomfortable position of trying terribly hard not to try so hard—and we are left ultimately waiting for the “miracle” that will shake us loose.
However, in spite of the impossibility of getting “there” from here, I am convinced that some people do, and this conviction leaves me, with the rest of us seekers, struggling not to struggle, trying like mad to trick myself into spontaneity, shaming myself for how ashamed I am of myself, hoping for light by even making love to the darkness, and playing every angle I can on these paradoxes until I find the invisible trigger that will explode me into truth.