A Subtle Difference and Sameness

Existentialist:
"There's nobody. There's nothing."











Nondualist:
"There's nobody! There's nothing!"











It's just a matter of inflection.



©2009 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved.

Is The Work Nondual?

I used to say that The Work is a process leading to the state of nonduality as sought by students of Dzogchen Buddhism or Advaita Vedanta.

We could also say that Byron Katie is not a nondualist because she uses terms like "joy" and "happiness" to describe her existance, rather than the more advaitin terminology of "nothing" and "emptiness," thus making "nothing" into "something." ("No thing" is the optimal experience of advaita, by the way).

The trouble with the idea of nondualism is that it has to be demonstrated through language and concepts, which of course create more duality and separation.

However on a practical note, a book title like "No Identity and No Attachment to What Is Not," or "A Thousand Names for Nothing" probably wouldn't sell many copies to folks like you and me who still believe we are not awake. :0)


©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick; all rights reserved.

"We are the spoiled grandchildren of Ramana Maharshi." —Pamela Wilson

Dear Friends,

Ramana is beloved to many of us who came to The Work of Byron Katie from the practice of satsang. I hope you will enjoy this beautiful video of our spiritual grandfather from Shiva Bhakti Productions.

Love,
Carol




©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick; all rights reserved.

What Helen Keller Saw and Heard

"Before my teacher came to me, I did not know that I am."
—Helen Keller

Blind and deaf since toddlerhood, the prolific author Helen Keller was often accused in her lifetime of describing things—sights, sounds, colors, music—about which she had no direct knowledge. When Keller's autobiography The Story of My Life was published in 1903, a critic in The Nation magazine famously complained, "All her knowledge is hearsay knowledge. Her very sensations are for the most part vicarious, and yet she writes of things beyond her powers of perception with the assurance of one who has verified every word."

Keller herself admitted more than once to having "derived knowledge," picked up from the observations and experience of others. In attempting to tell us what it was like for her—one who lived in a world that in many ways she could only imagine—if she did not speak our language, how else could we who rely on visual and aural impressions begin to understand her? (To her credit, Keller did call her book The Story of My Life, not The Truth of My Life!)

As one who has written often about "spiritual" matters, I, too, tell stories through the filter of my own particular blindness and deafness. (As indeed who does not? As Byron Katie asks, did you know it was a sky, or even that it was blue, before you asked and someone told you about skies and blueness?) When I have awareness that seem close to the truth (I don't profess to know "the truth"), since I live in a world with apparent names and forms, where people use imagery-laden words and concepts to interact, I must use a common tongue to communicate my "relative reality" to myself as well as to others.

In her book, The World I Live In, Keller wrote, "Before my teacher came to me, I did not know that I am." It would appear that before others imposed their concepts on little Helen about how she should be, she lived in the state that spiritual seekers strive for, that which is prior to "I." Maybe, as infants, we all live there, until we are instructed to say Ma-ma, Da-da and doggie, until we are taught we were little boys or girls, that there is a God and that this God is something apart from what we are.

So, despite our best efforts, language adds layers to the illusion of separation from "what is." At the same time, it's a wonderful gift. Though Byron Katie says the truth cannot be told and that her "moment of clarity" happened in a wordless space, she too uses words to help us move beyond the stressful thoughts that appear to us in the form of language. Her self-inquiry process, The Work, is nothing but simple and direct arrangements of words like "Is it true?" that point to a way of finding what she found.

Having lost her sight at 19 months, Helen Keller might never have seen her infant self in a mirror. What I've come to realize is that I am not so different from her, though I have eyes that function. None of us sees our own face, only a reflection that is always distorted. When we do see what the poet David Whyte calls "the true shape of your own face," the "I" prior to "I," it is the result of an inward gaze.

Though my words appear to serve—at least my "fan mail" tells me so—I feel the need to say that any "knowledge" I pretend to impart here through my writing is not simply my opinion, it's "hearsay knowledge," borrowed interest. It's a beginning, it is clearly a help for some...and it's not "it." For this reason I use The Work, the most efficient fact-checker I've ever encountered, to continually verify for myself the words I say, the thoughts I think I believe, to polish the inner mirror, to learn how to speak more fluently the language of the heart.


©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick; all rights reserved.

The Artifice Formally Known as Her

I was berating myself the other day after having been reactive in a social situation. It was a small thing and quickly resolved, but the belief stayed with me that "I could have handled it with more maturity." That was an "I should," and my mind was filled with shame, remorse and self-loathing as I replayed the little movie of my maturity lapse over and again.

Inquiring into this belief revealed that I was upset because I believed I had "done" something...not simply done something wrong, but done something at all. I discovered that any belief in "doership" trips me up every time; it is the ultimate in being in God's business mentally, the epitome of loneliness.

I remember one time Byron Katie asked someone who was embarassed about passing gas in public, "Do you take credit for everything?" Well, I do...and I just did it again when I said "I do." And again just now. What is that tenacious "I" that I think I am? Why do I so fearfully cling to that story of a past (seeing now how "I" is exactly that)? How does it serve me? Only to ground me in an identity that is not even mine.

As I replay the same mental movie after doing The Work, it becomes a romantic comedy, a darling little one-act play. She—the me of my movie—doesn't feel heard; with some irritation, she berates the sweet friend for not hearing her. The friend now hears and responds with kindness and acknowledgment. Still, she doesn't take the kindness graciously, doesn't let it in. She is RIGHT! Then in hindsight she believes she messed up, that she was unkind and unevolved and all in the name of love! She—the movie star—is, to my eyes now, an endearingly funny Valentine stumbling towards love, a little baby soul who has not yet learned there is no such thing as not-love. And I love her as I would love a toddler taking wobbly steps. There is no imperfection here in this perfect child apparently walking in this perfect world. I would not alter this movie; it is dear.

"I did it" creates discord even when it's a "good" thing I believe I have done because then there is pressure to continue to do good; there is the discomfort of credit-taking for that which was not my doing to begin with; and there is the fear of discovery of being a fraud.

So tonight I sit with all these "I-did-its." I just typed that; can I absolutely know that it's true? Did "I" get into every finger and make it move on the keyboard? Did I formulate the thought that produced the words? I cannot find a shred of evidence for any of this. As the words are re-read before she hits "send," the computer screen scrolls up and down, apparently moved by a hand. There is no micromanagement of that hand from over here; how does it all move? Who did it? Not me.

Yesterday she thought she was to teach a class and wondered how that would turn out when she was under the weather, sleep-deprived and felt unprepared. She realized that a "yes" was all she had to offer; yes to the class happening and it was not even remotely "her" class. A class happened and she and the participants were conduits. Words came; realizations realized themselves. The last of the words flowed in the last scheduled moments, right on time; perfect closure. It taught itself as a unit; no teachers, no students...and all of us both. Everything was provided.

The freedom that comes of this experience shows me that "I," "She," "It" cannot do it wrong; leaves me as the obedient and grateful servant of what is...leaves me as Love pretending to be woman sitting at computer, writing.

Katie says,"My job is to delete myself." I have wondered how it was possible. Here's how it happens: I ask four questions, then turn them around, the mind beholds the mystery of its own creation of itself, that which is called a me, called "Carol." And in the seeing of that artifice, it is undone. I cannot, as the saying goes, make that rope into a snake again. I cannot breathe life into a statue however beautiful, or believe a cartoon Carol is real, no matter how artfully animated she appears. She is so much more than that...and so much less.

In this moment of humble seeing, joy—often an elusive concept—is here, in me, as me, as not-me...and even that is not true. And her name is Love.

I am willing and I look forward to losing this sweet awareness. How joyous will be the reunion when it comes time, once more, for suffering to cease.

©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved.

Byron Katie's Book Reviewed by Carol Skolnick in Noumenon Journal

The Summer 2006 issue of The Noumenon Journal, an annual published in South Africa by Dr. Kriben Pillay about nondual perspectives, is available now for purchase at the Lulu.com website.

My book review of Byron Katie's I Need Your Love—Is That True? is included, as as well as "Far reaching explorations of our transformative potential… Touching the Universe with Steven Harrison and Patrick McCarty; Corporate Trainings and the Cult of ‘Me’; Krishnamurti and Dramatherapy; Joan Tollifson on Death and What Is; Leadership perspectives by Robert Rabbin and Jim Dreaver; Peter Francis Dziuban on Consciousness" and more.

©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved.

Loving What's Moi

That wascally wabbit Jamie Reynolds went and tapped me back for another game of "blog tag," albeit with another rather Workie twist. This time I was asked to name five things I love about myself. Not to boast, but when I do my work and take a time-out from my second career as a self-flagelator, there's actually quite a lot that's pretty darn cool about me. Here are a half dozen instead of five, because, as Byron Katie might say about those genuine examples of each turnaround, "If you can find five, you can find six," and so on. I invite you to do the same, especially if you are Stephanie, Annie, Nancy, Patty, and
Richard.

1. I love that I'm so entertaining. Sometimes this bites me in the butt—I've been known to get "schticky" when I'm feeling too vulnerable...and I'm working on it—but you can almost always count on me for a song, a quick and clever quip, or to leave you winded and aching from laughter after you've heard me sing "Oh What A Beautiful Morning" as Julie Andrews...or "I'm Zo Ex-zited" as Dr. Ruth Westheimer.

2. I love my willingness. Self inquiry isn't always a picnic in the park, but more often than not I am willing and often excited to upend those big rocks and find the slimy stuff beneath them. It frees me and I love that. I think I am most courageous to go to the places I go, to feel the feelings after so many years of trying to override them or stuff them down.

3. I love my writing. Don't all writers write primarily for themselves? I do...and I think it's good stuff! If I didn't, I'd never post it here. And if I didn't write for myself, I'd still be writing junk mail, or perhaps penning potboilers (under a pseudonym) for big bucks. As a youngster I wanted to be the next Rona Jaffee, but these days, though I think I could easily learn the formulas and get someone to photograph me for the dust jacket in a negligee through several layers of Vaseline, it's not in my integrity to do so. Except...it would almost be worth it to have a book called The Mistress of Arts, about a slutty Master's candidate at a prestigious university who sleeps her way to the Ph.D. (I first thought of this when I was a virginal albeit lustful Master's candidate at a prestigious university who did no such thing.)

4. I love that I have made friends with depression. No more victimhood, yippee! It has been a most interesting spiritual path, having depression as a guru...and truly I would not trade in this life for another. Transformational Inquiry: Working with Depression is soon to be a major eBook, available at clearlifesolutions.com.)

5. I love myself when I love you. I love the openness of it, the joy, the connection, the kindness and gratitude. I love the sweetness and consideration and compassion of showing up as love embodied. I am so nice to be around when I'm that way! I'm totally enjoying my own company and calling it "you." It just brings home the whole nonduality mirror thing: how could we recognize wonderfulness in another if we weren't that?

6. I love my vulnerability. Sometimes. Still working on it. I still think, at times, that I should suck it up and deal...that I shouldn't be so sensitive and take things so personally. But gosh...I get more fan letters when I open up here. And it is such a relief to be able to do that.

©2007 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved.

Goldilocks, the Two Bears and the Master of Nonduality

Once upon a time there were three bears...

A Papa bear...
A Mama bear...
And a bear with Beginner's Mind.

The three bears apparently sat down to have breakfast one morning. Papa Bear declared, "My chair is too hard."

Mama Bear sat in her seat and complained, "My chair is too soft."

And the open-minded little Baby Bear who attached to no such concepts as "too hard" or "too soft," happily pronounced his little chair to be "just right."

The bears shifted their attention (for that is what mind does) to the bowls of cooked cereal that lay before them.

Papa Bear declared, "My porridge is too hot!"

Mama Bear tried hers. "My porridge is too cold!"

Baby Bear, whose understanding was prior to the world of opposites which is the world of suffering, had no such polarity of mind. "My porridge is just right," he said, totally loving what is.

Stunned by that koan, the ursine elders stopped eating and their attention moved to taking a walk. Imprisoned in the "I-Know" mind, they hoped that when they returned, things would be more to their liking. And Little Bear ambled along behind them, in flow, completely in the Now.

While they were gone, life happened, as it is wont to do. Goldilocks, who was making her way through the dense forest of her beliefs, had the stressful thought that she was tired and hungry, and attaching to that thought, she compromised her integrity by breaking and entering the bears' home. Her belief in "fatigue" led her to the bears' chairs. She found Papa Bear's chair to be too hard, and Mama Bear's chair to be too soft. Mind's job is to be right, and Goldilocks did not know how to question what she believed. Had she done so, she might have realized she was not tired at all, since a truly tired person would have gratefully sunken into any chair. Alas, she who knows, knows not. So the unknowning Goldilocks, who "knew" that Baby Bear's chair was the one for her, sat in it and broke it.

Suddenly forgetting all about her fatigue, her thoughts turned to food. Rather than welcoming and feeling the sensation of hunger or investigating the thought prior to the feeling, she un-mindfully tucked into Papa Bear's porridge. As she did so, she felt her mouth on fire and, like Papa Bear before her, christened the cereal "too hot." The whole world might agree, and yet she did not ask herself if it were true; thus, she suffered.

Goldilocks moved to Mama Bear's porridge, which she found to be too cold. So many conditions! Was she hungry or not? No matter, for Goldilocks was at war with reality, convinced that there was something better than This Now. Holding that belief, she polished off Little Bear's "just right" porridge and called it wisdom.

Sated (for the moment, because the feeling of fullness would soon pass and the wheel of samsara would spin once more), Goldilocks remembered that she believed she was tired and she moved to the bears' bedroom. She found Papa Bear's bed to be too hard (was she tired or not?), and Mama Bear's bed to be too soft (too soft to support her body? Too soft to be a bed? Too soft in this moment? Nothing exists that is not Shiva, except for this bed???). The last stop was Baby Bear's little bed, and the I-Know mind, needing proof and running out of alternatives, deemed it "just right." Soon Goldilocks, already asleep, was asleep in a different way, dreaming a different kind of dream but no less of a dream than the waking one.

Soon afterwards, the Bear Family returned to their ransacked home. Papa Bear growled, "Someone's been sitting in my chair." Could he absolutely know this was true? It wasn't the way he remembered having left it, and mind is an unreliable narrator. On borrowed interest, Mama Bear said, "Someone's been sitting in my chair!" This brought her the strange satisfaction of agreement, which only serves to validate the ego...until the first argument, that is. Then the story changes to "My husband doesn't understand me," "I want a divorce," and "Who keeps the house?"

Baby Bear, noticing his broken chair, exclaimed, "Somebody's been sitting in my chair (true enough, for he had sat in it himself just prior to leaving their home), and it's broken!" (Which it was, in the sense of relative reality where things are said to be broken or whole.)

Then Papa Bear looked into his bowl of porridge. "Somebody has been eating my porridge," he roared. ("Who is it who has been eating what?" He neglected to ask himself, in all innocence. We all would ask these questions if only we knew how.) An adherent of Bear Lore, Mama Bear repeated his mantra, "Somebody has been eating my porridge!" Baby Bear, seeing that his bowl was empty, had no proof that his portion of porridge had in fact been eaten all up or that it had ever existed in the first place. However, out of kindness, he spoke as if he too believed in the illusion, because true Love joins with its mirror image. Between "porridge" and "not porridge," Baby Bear's life flowed peacefully. It was not for him to push others beyond their evolution.

Not so with his parents. They proceeded to the bedroom, still wanting to be right. Papa Bear, noticing his quilt was askew, accused someone of having slept in his bed, though in fact no one had; Goldilocks had only tested it out and found it lacking. Mama Bear, too, was taken in by the world of appearance and exclaimed, "Someone's been sleeping in MY bed!"

The little Baby Bear, fully awake, said, "Someone's been sleeping in my bed (the sleep of the one who lives in the dream) and here she is!" The wise little bear had no problem with there being someone in his bed; he was simply making an observation. What is, is. And in fact there she was, the Someone in that bed, in that moment...but only in that moment for in the next moment she took off like a shot, frightened out of her wits because she believed her thoughts about bears. ("Bears are dangerous;" meanwhile she was the intruder, the thief, the destroyer of chairs.)

Goldilocks told the story of her "narrow escape" far and wide, and that story has been told over and again ever since as if it really happened as she perceived it. In that way she created her reality as a victim, in danger, who emerged victorious as a hero. And the bears? We could say they carried on with their lives, but since no one observed them and came back to tell us, that would be just another fairy tale.


©2006 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved. (Is that true?)