Opening the Door: Jan Frazier Teachings On Awakening

Jan Inc. Frazier

Description

Jan Frazier experienced a radical transformation of consciousness at age fifty, in 2003. Her first book, "When Fear Falls Away: The Story of a Sudden Awakening" (Weiser Books, 2007), is an account of her awakening, as it unfolded over the first eighteen months. "The Freedom of Being: At Ease with What Is" (Weiser Books, 2012) offers guidance toward the reduction of suffering and the prospect of radical freedom. Both books are available in paperback and eBook.

"Opening the Door: Jan Frazier Teachings on Awakening" is an eBook collection of essays on the nature of spiritual awakening. The book opens the reader's awareness to the possibility of a richly human life, beyond what appears possible to the ego and the mind. The teachings point to unresisting present-moment attention, where the truth of existence is known. Jan Frazier's teachings are drawn from direct experience, relying on no particular tradition or set of beliefs.

Sujets

• Philosophie
• Métaphysique
• Metaphysics
• Philosophy
• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456610999
• Langue: English

Extrait

Opening the Door
Jan Frazier Teachings on Awakening
 
By
Jan Frazier

JanFrazierTeachings.com
 
 
Author of
When Fear Falls Away: The Story of a Sudden Awakening (Weiser Books, 2007)
The Freedom of Being: At Ease with What Is (Weiser Books, 2012)
 
 
Copyright 2012 Jan Frazier,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1099-9
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
The Elephant in the Room
People have always suspected there was something more, something beyond. Something before, at bottom, a fundamental from which all else sprang. A primordial. Not just an idea, not something to take notes on in a philosophy class, but a gut knowing in the middle of the night, when no one else is awake. What is it? What is it? We all silently agree to pretend things matter — to carry on as though the world as we have laid it out, life as we live it, makes perfect sense. Is enough. But secretly we know otherwise.
Some of us came up with God. Some of us got stuck in despair.
However we deal with it, we are taught to ignore the nagging suspicion that a lot of what we do is meaningless. We are conditioned to put our faith in what we’ve been told to believe in: hard work, a solid sense of self. Love, as it shows up between parent and child, between lovers.
It is because of the sneaking worry that nothing would happen that nobody opens their mouth and says, Am I the only one here who has the feeling there’s more going on than meets the eye? I mean, what if nobody could find it? What if nobody had any idea of where to even start to look?
And still, there is this feeling that there is supposed to be more to life. There is always this elephant in the room, but nobody opens their mouth and says There is an elephant in the room. One reason nobody says it is that if somebody did, then others would have to allow as how they had the same suspicion. Then what? Nobody could live the same after that. Nobody could pretend anymore that what is supposed to matter really does. And what if somebody in that room said the next thing: Okay, let’s figure it out. What if the whole group of people there, who had just admitted out loud that they’ve always had the feeling there was something huge but not pin-down-able . . . what if they said, We’re gonna go for it, get hold of this thing, slather ourselves in it, wrap our hands around it, claim it for our own? Their eyes would all light up with the rush of it, the sudden possibility of something radical happening, something that would change their lives forever. Somebody would stand up and say, Come on, let’s get going.
What then? What if nothing happened?
This is the question: Why was I born? What am I about? What is my business here? The question is urgent, isn’t it? All the evidence suggests it won’t go on forever; the cemeteries are littered with dead people.
We keep ourselves busy to avoid asking the question. Why indeed was a person born? We must keep ourselves busy. There’s school, there are relationships, jobs, clothes, recycling. The sun rises and sets, rises and sets, and one day somebody puts the blade of a shovel to the earth and drops us in it.
Why indeed?
Many years ago somebody asked me what I thought my life was about, what it was for, and I said I guessed it was about writing. I meant it. I believed that to be the case. Well, it was the best I could come up with. (I had to say something .) A ridiculous answer was better than saying I don’t know.
But to even ask the question! For a person to ask the question of self: this is a window being opened. Why was I born?
Don’t rush to answer. There is no need to answer. Just ask the question. For now, that is enough.
Who wants to know? a person might say. Who is it that is asking the question? Who am I, anyway? Maybe that is the real question. Maybe it will dawn that who you are would be glad to let itself go. What a shock THAT would be. A relief. An actual relief.
Maybe the question isn’t Why was I born? Maybe it’s How can I let myself go? How can I lose the sense that my particular self is the most significant thing (even while the form of this self is still living a life)? How can I get so I can’t tell where I stop and the rest of the world picks up?
Now there’s an idea. Then, the beginning and the end of a life are minor points. It’s the almighty I that causes all the trouble in the first place, that gives rise to the creepy little voice that’s compelled to ask that overwhelming question, Why was I born?
The universe sings to itself. Amuses itself. Has no questions.
It has been snowing. The local universe has been snowing, piling up on itself, little bits of itself piling up on little bits of itself. Open your mouth full of questions and let it fill up with the world, and soon you won’t be able to locate yourself anymore. Just the world making love to itself, laughing itself silly. It never wondered why it was born. It didn’t have time. It was too busy being enthralled with doing nothing as a means to an end.
They used to put people in asylums for talking like this. The walls rang with hysterical laughter. They burned people for it, bundled them up with dry sticks, put a match to them. The fire lit the sky.
Tuning Fork
Just a door to open, a quiet invitation. Suspect there is more to you. Suspect the kingdom of God is here. You are it.
In the 1960s there was a shaving cream ad on TV in which a woman with a sultry voice said, Take it off. Take it all off. What is naked? What is that, to remove the apparent?
Here, come play in the silence, where the wind is. Did you imagine the wind blew someplace besides the inside of your body? Look on your own works, on the stars, the dew. Feel how life plays inside your vast body. Notice how you cannot find death, however hard you look.
You weren’t prepared for this. You cannot prepare. It comes, it lays out its banquet. You open your mouth: maybe sing, maybe cry out.
What is passion? What is the passion? What is it to be naked? What is it to realize nothing has been left out? To feel the arms of the beloved grabbing you up in rejoicing, and to realize they are your own?
We must be done with misery. It has spent itself down, wrung itself out. It is finished, useless now. Someone said, The world was meant to be free in.
Can’t you sense it? The option of it? That there is option being exercised?
But here, now, here comes the silence, to remind. How partial is the usefulness of words. The truth knows itself from within. The bones know. The ticking heart knows. The connective tissue hums with it.
The earth hums. Do you feel it? Oh, tuning fork — do you feel it?
Do you suspect there is option at play? Do you suspect grandeur in your very self? Let suspicion shock you awake, a bucket of cold water. Shake yourself like a dog. Look around, refreshed. Did you know all along? Notice the absence of surprise. See how familiar you feel to yourself, how it was all known. All home. See how at home you feel. How drained you are of opinion, ambition. How rinsed you are of grudge, regret. Of wishing.
Did you think you were something besides that loon? that fog lying on the distant hill? Are you surprised? What do you think Whitman was talking about in his rapture over the grass?
Where do you stop, and where does the rest of the world begin? There is no rest of the world. Do you have a suspicion of this? Did you think there was error?
God is a patient god. Lucky for us. No clock ticks there. It has been going on forever. It will go on another forever. We play in it, recklessly. Reckless of our majesty.
Fear is food. Eat it, shit it out, be done with it. It never did have anything to do with you. It is bored of our interest in it. It is going away now. One day, they will hear stories about the old world, how it used to be. Before we remembered what we are made of. We are here: this is that old world, where death is dreaded, where war is our idea of a good time. They will tell stories about us, how bit by bit, we shrugged ourselves awake. How we opened our eyes, looked around, and saw for the first time the miraculous world.
Shut Door, Open Door
In ordinary awareness, most moments of life seem to be like this. I am (anyone is) a certain person, having a particular identity, separate from all around me. I am here, now, and something is occurring. Maybe I’m doing something, or observing something, or something is happening to me. Maybe something noticeable is going on inside, in mind or body or emotions. There’s a physical setting and I’m located in it. Things appear to be in motion. I am somehow engaged with the surrounding experience. I am experiencing, processing, reacting. My inner response to what’s happening in the immediate scene has a landscape and an energy of its own.
Whatever the primary focus of attention, whether the immediate outer condition or an absorbing inner reality, there’s an ongoing sense that I am a physically contained awareness moving through space, moving through time, and subject to experience. That I am separate, a subject taking in an object.
Now forget all of that.
In a moment of presence, in which the solid sense of self is felt to briefly dissolve, what happens? For some reason (a thing we are not in charge of), a door has opened. In floods awareness. This is not a mental experience. It is not a “spiritual” experience. (Forget all of that too.) This is a human experience. It’s about feeling. Presence is the enlivening of intelligent awareness that is felt throughout the body.
Something has caused awareness to sense itself. People often will say they recall vividly the first time this happened. Probably it was in youth.
What opens the