“And in that seeing, nothing broke— only the claim that anything had ever been held.”
What is that "seeing"?
That seeing is not an act. It’s not something you do. It’s not cognitive, not a belief, not an interpretation.
It’s simply: the noticing of what is—without a center. The effortless, direct awareness in which appearances arise and pass, without landing on a “me.”
It’s the seeing that:
doesn’t belong to anyone,
doesn’t try to change what’s seen,
doesn’t divide what appears from what observes.
It’s the moment thought is recognized as thought, without a story about who it’s for. It’s sensation felt directly, without being wrapped in identity. It’s the noticing of a narrative and the silent knowing:
“This doesn’t need to be believed.”
That seeing doesn’t fix or improve or reach conclusions. It doesn’t seek. It doesn’t reject. It just shines.
And in that light, the illusion that something was ever being held—grasped, managed, owned— simply falls away.
No effort. No end goal. Just silent clarity.
Now to reflect on how the silent clarity can come and go and come again…
The silent clarity—
that wide, effortless knowing—
can seem to come and go.
One moment, there’s openness.
No struggle, no center, no seeker.
Just presence.
Just the gentle noticing of what is.
And then, without warning,
the wave of thought returns—
a feeling stirs, a story builds,
and suddenly, there’s someone again.
Someone trying to hold it together.
Someone trying to stay awake.
It feels like clarity has gone.
Like something precious has been lost.
But it hasn’t.
The silence was never dependent on experience.
It was never something you had.
It was something that was there
when the claiming wasn’t.
The mind can’t hold silence.
It can only quiet itself long enough
for silence to be known again.
And so it returns—
not because you earned it,
but because it was never gone.
Like the sky behind clouds,
like the stillness beneath every movement,
it’s always here.
Even when it seems lost,
what notices its absence
is already made of it.
Let it come.
Let it go.
Let it come again.
There is no rhythm to master.
No achievement to maintain.
Only the seeing that even “losing it”
is just another appearance
in what never leaves.
And if this happens, what does it mean about awakening?
If the silent clarity seems to come and go…
it doesn’t mean awakening has failed.
It means awakening is not what the mind imagined.
It’s not a permanent state of bliss.
Not a fortress against emotion.
Not the end of all thought, pain, or confusion.
What’s waking up isn’t a person.
It’s the illusion of personhood unraveling.
And that illusion returns—because it's deeply conditioned.
But now, when the “me” reappears,
you know to pause.
To look.
To question.
And that’s the shift.
Awakening is not measured by how long clarity stays.
It’s known by how easily the stories are seen through when they arise.
By how quickly the weight of identification loses its grip.
You don’t lose awakening.
You just get temporarily enchanted again.
And that too… is seen.
So what does it mean?
It means awakening is alive.
A living inquiry.
Not an arrival, but an unfolding.
Each “loss” of clarity is an invitation—
not back to the mind,
but deeper into the real.
You’re not going backward.
You’re being invited to see
that even the going-back
happens in the same vastness
that never left.
I love this Vince. The reminders invoke a silent aha