I really messed up on my unseen poetry today, unit 3 😔 In my introduction I said I was going to compare poem C “Blizzard” and I used quotes from it throughout, but I accidentally wrote poem B (i.e in Poem B, “Blizzard”, or poem B starkly contrasts this -then I used a quote) whenever I was referencing quotes.
Am I cooked?

Post(s) in Question

Post: https://www.reddit.com/zen/comments/1d5d0vg/passing_through_without_getting_stuck/
Section 24: Beyond Words

Monk Fengxue was asked by a monk, "How can one pass without offense [to Buddha Dharma] when words don't describe the experience, and silence doesn't make the experience knowable?"
Fengxue quoted a famous poem, "Always remember Jiangnan in March, where the cuckoo's call fills the air with the fragrance of a hundred flowers."

Wumen's Comment

reps is right

Verse

reps is right

Podcast: https://sites.libsyn.com/407831/6-1-wumenguan-gatelesss-barrier-24-astroemi
Link to episode:
Link to all episodes: https://sites.libsyn.com/407831
Buymeacoffee, so I'm not accused of going it alone:https://www.buymeacoffee.com/ewkrzen

What did we end up talking about?

The big thing was that I think we ended up at the argument that everybody that ever translated this was basically wrong... even me... Paul Reps was the only one that really got it right.
It just took us a long time to get there.

You can be on the podcast! Use a pseudonym! Nobody cares!

Add a comment if there is a post you want somebody to get interviewed about, or you agree to be interviewed. We are now using libsyn, so you don't even have to show your face. You just get a link to an audio call.
I was thinking about the fact that it seems pretty reasonable to call somebody up and talk on the phone about something you talk about on reddit everyday... but some people are nervous about this. Why? It's a phone call. Is it the public nature of the phone call? In a coffee shop it's public too... but it's not scrutinized.
Being wrong... is that the big worry? We all have trouble saying Chinese words, remembering Chinese names, and explaining Zen concepts that the Chinese themselves were uncomfortable with. What's the standard for public conversations when it comes to knowledge? Does that standard mean less people want to talk publicly?

write the most memorable quotes from poems, literature with vivd metaphors or amazing meaning that clings to you. Be t romantic, life, scientific or psychological related.
I'm obsessed with vivid metaphors and the usage of vivid metaphors to create an image. Bring me your most loved works please, I'm not fluent in English so I'm not familiar with other languages rich literature!
Any language is fine but please say the translation in English so I can understand. Thank you!

Hi everyone,
I'm looking for some advice. I have a 2011 MacBook Pro that belongs to my 10 year old nephew. He somehow corrupted the hard drive, so I replaced it and now need to do a fresh install of macOS.
I tried using internet recovery, which offers two options: reinstalling the original macOS version that came with the MacBook or installing the latest version it can handle. Unfortunately, neither option works. One option gives a repeated error, and the other can't reach the network server. I've exhausted all troubleshooting steps I could find online.
I understand that installing macOS via USB is another option, but I don't have another MacBook to create the installer. Most of my friends use Windows. A friend downloaded the installer on his Mac and sent it to me via WeTransfer, but it didn't work since it's an executable file, not a disk image.
The Apple store quoted a repair cost that's too expensive, especially for an old MacBook. My nephew relies on this laptop for school, and we can't afford a new one right now.Does anyone have any advice or solutions?
Also, is there any other information you need from me to help troubleshoot this issue?Any help would be greatly appreciated.
Thanks!

Our first foreign language spring is ending. Next week we'll look at Catholic Francoist Spain with Nada by Carmen Laforet. If there's time before summer, I'd like to end with Melchor's Temporada de huracanes.
Today we have a selection of newspaper columns from the back page of El País turned into a book in 2019 titled Teoría de la gravedad. Though the selected columns were from the early-to mid 10s, her column is still running. Recently, Guerriero recounts her time alone in a cave, quotes JG Ballard and Burnout Society on boredom, explores the poets Vilariño and Lorca, and criticizes Javier Milei.
Guerriero grew up in the pampas, a vast grass plain in South Argentina. This is also the place where the protagonist in our reading of Borges El Sur returns looking for a final fight. Many chapters have a simple theme: parents, tiredness, faith, cleaning. The one or two page chapters are often self-contained. Though there is an episodic 18-part series called Introducción that deals with a faltering relationship. In one chapter, she remembers wanting to be a cowboy like John Wayne. Relevant to our Human Personality reading, she quotes Fabián Casas:
En los primeros años de tu vida cargás combustible. Después no cargás muchas veces más. Depende de la calidad de ese combustible que cargaste si te va a durar durante toda la vida. Vos sos una determinada persona cuando las papas quman. La próxima estación de servicio está muy lejos Cuando nacés tenés esencia. Después, empieza a aparecer la personalidad. La personalidad trabaja en contra de la esencia. En neustra cultura capitalista, de demanda constante, rinde la personalidad. La personalidad como algo totalment ficticio, de construcción, es una máscara. La esencia es lo que te sostiene.
Often the entries end with a poem. In this long youtube interview in Spanish, link timestamped, Guerriero lists the poets and writers that were important to her parents. Poets mentioned in Toería de la gravedad include Louise Glück, Arnaldo Calveyra, and Gonzalo Milián. Writers Joan Didion, Clarice Lispector, Fabián Casas are also cited along with various pop and rock lyrics both American and Argentine.
If you've read any of Guerriero's work, I'm curious to hear what you think.

Unfortunately, my dude,
Replying to a poem about you,
I am on a different dimension,
Dancing between the lightless of space,
So fast that light of stars escapes my sight,
I had nothing but love for you,
Now I have to look down on you,
Arrogant is what you are,
Humbly giving the wisdom and the time I behold,
I help, I'm blessed to do so,
My mom and dad are no longer here,
Poetry was the gift they held,
The passing of my dad, was traumatic to me,
That night the moon was high a huge full ball of light,
The blue ambient lights of the Moon, fell upon me,
It made everything crystal clear for me to see,
The grass and trees were speaking to me, all dancing in glee,
I looked pasted the light of the Moon,
When I was blessed with this gift of poetry,
Ninety days it flowed from me,
In the blink of an eye, the think of a thought,
So fast I couldn't write to concentrate,
The words I spoke were all in rhyme,
I could not sleep, seeing words in the absent of light,
When word escapes others sight,
Their minds are blinded by the blight,
My autism speaks, I found my voice in poetry,
Tonight I critiqued a raising star,
Fill of venom for it spat it's rays,
I turned my gaze to another rising star,
This is what I think of you,
I quote the raven "Nevermore,"

Hello Duoduo, the previous letter was official business, and this one, is just for a casual chat. It snowed today in Kyoto for the first time in the fifth year of the Qing calendar. Came earlier than usual. The snow in Shangjing must be even heavier, and weather colder. I remember branches of plum blossoms at the corner of the fence in your vegetable garden. I wonder if those branches have blossomed with red specks to add some colour to the dull white snow.
Oh, how are the ducks you raised? Be careful not to let them freeze to death... It's quite normal here. Little Yellow, Little Black, and Little White are all raised in a farm outside the Capital. I heard that the guys there treat those three fat cats as if they are their ancestors. Definitely won't have problems raising them.
I've been fine, just eating and sleeping. The house has been quiet. My sister is busy in the Imperial Medical Office these days. I heard that it has become a rare sight in Kyoto. Wan'er returned to Lin Mansion today. My adorable brother-in-law probably feels neglected recently, and is a bit angry. I wonder what you are doing at this time.
By the way, my student, Shi, opened a brothel. Business is good. The food dishes are especially exquisite. If you travel to Qing one day, I want to bring you there. Ah, it suddenly occurred to me I have forgotten the name of the restaurant in Shangjing last time, but I still remember that the wine was good, and I talked a lot of nonsense with you. I wonder how much you remember.
By the way, I have read your first few letters several times, but I always feel sour. You are a saint, don't imitate the behavior of those rich families' ladies and try including poems in your letters. Although I somewhat have reputation as a praised poet, I have no interest in correcting compositions.”
Last time, you said that Si Lili is doing well... Well, don't talk about this kind of thing anymore. I have always had a grudge about this matter, and for some reason, I especially feel troubled hearing about her from you.
Duoduo, come to Qing to visit. My wife is also very curious about you... Also, by the way, can your Tian Yi Dao skills be passed on to outsiders? I have suddenly become more interested in your training methods recently.
The snow seems to be getting heavier. The young man outside the house is still chopping firewood. Young people are always passionate. Though I am still young, for some reason, I feel a little old in my heart. Looking at the people around me, it's hard to get interested. I feel tired, and bored of everything... The wind and snow outside are howling, maybe it's urging me to write. So okay, let's stop here. The fireplace here is too old, and it's hard to warm up the room. Although I still want to talk to you, I feel that there is no need to go against God's cruelty... In addition, please help me take care of him, thank you, and wish you all the best.
Wang Qinian, if you dare to peek again, I will let Mu Tie and his nephew peek at your daughter when she takes a bath!
A whole letter of useless chat, except one line: "Can your Tian Yi Dao skills be passed on to outsiders?"
Judging from this letter alone, it seems that Fan Xian is a sly and despicable conman, purposely leading her on, just so she would give him her secret training techniques... 🤔

I’m back again to muse about my favorite imperfect TV family! Tonight I’m thinking about my favorite moments that Jack and Rebecca had with each of their kids throughout the series. Here’s the first thing that comes to mind for each of them:
Jack:
Jack and Kate: Jack confiding in Kate about his alcoholism and her comforting him
Jack and Kevin: Jack giving Kevin his necklace and explaining he’ll find his purpose someday after Kevin breaks his knee
Jack and Randall: Randall quoting Langston Hughes’ “I, Too” poem to Jack after the dinner with Randall’s teacher and Jack saying he would like to read the book together.
Rebecca:
Rebecca and Kevin (as a kid): Rebecca taking Kevin to get baseball cards and blowing on the last pack for him for extra luck
Rebecca and Kevin (as an adult): visiting Joni Mitchell’s house
Rebecca and Kate (as a kid/teen): Kate comforting Rebecca after she found out Miguel was moving away
Rebecca and Kate (as an adult): Kate’s “you are my way” speech to Rebecca before the Katoby wedding
Rebecca and Randall (as a kid): Rebecca’s conversation with little Randall post challenger explosion
Rebecca and Randall (as an adult): Rebecca’s conversation with Randall about why she had to make Kate her executor
There are so many more moments I love but these were the first to come to mind as some of my favorites! What are everyone else’s favorite Jack, Rebecca & kids moments? ☺️

Hey, I'm turned 24 recently and I've been getting over this from last 926 days and now I can't take it anymore and i need help. Waring: I have borderline personality disorder.
So this happened when I was 21. I was a very much reserved, introvert person. Had one long distance relationship and it was toxic as hell. He cheated on me since day one to entire 1.5 yrs span and relationship and gave me lots of trauma and in the meantime I was harrassed by my medicine professor ( constant stalking, rape threats, demanding sexual favours). I was in a very bad place, I got diagnosed with treatment resistant depression and panic disorder along with BPD and after 3 yrs of suffering i decided to end my life on Nov 21, 2021. I overdosed myself with lamotrigine, fluoxetine, oxcarbemazepine, mirtazepine. Before I lost consciousness i open tinder to delete it but I got a text from a person named Bhaskar and we immediately connect, we was so much caring and i regretted taking those meds and praying i that I will wake up. I fall unconscious after few minutes and later I woke up at hospital. I got discharged and i immediately texted him back. There were around 50+ texts from him and he was worried. I texted him back and we strated talking. We grew closed. He was very much caring. As I had bad relationship with my parents and no friends, he became my best friend. But I was hesitant about relationship but he was very much persuasive and after few wks I gave in. He was a good looking, well educated guy. Within short span of time he filled me with happiness. He was so exited about me, wrote poems about me, i strated to open up, told him about my childhood abuse, sexual assault and that was the first i ever articulated those. In short he saved me.
Days passed and my 22nd birthday was coming and he planned a date ( my first ever date, and my first ever birthday cake) i went there with a friend ( and my friends friends (daksh)). Daksh looked like my ex and i got panic attack. Fast forward Bhaskar came, rest 3 of us were med student and bhaskar was the older (28). We retured and he came to my home ( I live alone).
I had this habit of motion sickness and on my way back I got that. Instead of Bhaskar, daksh got me medicine and more caring. Bhaskar and i shared airpods and listened to some Taylor Swift and Billie. We reached home and i fall on bed. At that time I was already on antidepressants and it had sexual side-effects. After 15 mins of reaching he initiated and i didn't reciprocate and he got angry, I was afraid that he will leave so I did whatever he said and he proceeded to make fun of me not getting erection. It was awkward but I was already attached to him. U know BPD traits, either worship someone or hate someone to the core, no in between.
Days passed everything was fine. But he started doubting me with daksh and I can assure I had no such feelings for him. I only loved Bhaskar. Fights become a daily thing. He used to visit me on weekends and do his thing, doesn't matter if I'm worn out from night shift and by dealing with lots of hormonal pregnant ladies. He will wake me up at 3/4Am just to get his stuff around and sometimes while I'm sleeping. Besides that he was very nice to me. He taught me basic life hacks, how to go out, how to talk to people, how to do grocery, tax, online payment etc. He made me join gym. He used to help me with studies. Help me prepare for PGT exam etc etc. Slowly he became more insecure of daksh, both hated each other. I was growing closer and closer with daksh but we had only professional relationship. He used to teach me medicine as he was one year senior than me. Fast forward, Bhaskar told me that he told his sister about me and gave her number. I just kept it and didn't text. He was proud of me, he uses to say, something so rare that i never used to hear. He was 28 and parents were talking about marriage, i laughed and said you aren't getting married right? He didn't said anything and buy rather brust out and said, at home they are running my peace and here you. Let me do one thing, I'll kill myself. I didn't say anything
After few months i was adopting a dog , at first he was supportive but on the day of adoption he called me and started screaming at me. Said I'm kid myself and I'm not capable of taking care of a dog. How cruel i have to be take a puppy away from his mother. That puppy will die if i adopt. And later he admitted he was jealous that my attention will get divided between him and the puppy.
Time flew. His marriage thing came out again and this time he said he is getting married. I begged him not to do so. I reasoned as much as i can. He has a sister, i asked him will he be happy if his sister marry and gay man and his brother in law has a boyfriend. He said he will kill that person. Then i ask why the double standards? He diverted the question He said and i quote " i want to marry, have kids to make my mum happy and i want to be with you too, but he can't marry. You have to stay with me till the end" I called him a hypocrite and called it off.
No contact for weeks and my BPD got worse as he forced me not to take those meds cuz we weren't having good sex cuz of the side effects.
He texted again and as always blamed everything on me. Told me he opened tinder and meeting people, told me I'm psychotic, i deserve my past and he hates me more than he hates his father.
I was emotionally shut down. My final mbbs exam was approaching and i didn't care. I called him and told him I'm not doing well. He inturn told me he is having great sex. He body-shamed me ( yep due to depression I lost lots of weight and was struggling with eating).
Idk what happened, he came back and was talking nicely, it was a surprise visit, I had surgery exam that day and after that I was just laying lifeless on my bed . He came in, no reaction from me. He slept next to me and all i did was shed a tear. He started kissing and became rough. I was already part dead and I had no energy to fight back. He tied my hand and dis whatever he wanted, few times i tried to push him away but i couldn't,so i just stayed there. After he was done, I said nothing. He came near and kissed my forehead and said I love you. I said nothing. Later that evening we took me out for dinner. I just sat there and ate nothing. People were looking at us. We came back and he again shouted at me. He felt humiliated by how i reacted outside and said let's break-up. I said okay. And went to my other room and took 5 clonazepam and fell unconscious. Next day i woke up at 2 pm and he wasn't there. Since then i haven't saw him
Despite everything I passed my med exam and started my internship. It was 18th December 2022, he texted and wished me happy birthday. And proceeded to ask me choose a girl for him to marry. And he said no matter whom he marry, I'll always be his first priority. I said nothing, no reply. I was numb inside. 31st December 2022, everything strated to unfold, I was alone, i called daksh he was busy and at the end i called Bhaskar, told him I can't stop my suicidal thoughts, i need help. He asked me to act on my thoughts and never contact him again. And i did. I ended up in icu. After 5 days of stay I was released, everybody came to know about me, my preference but instead of being ashamed i embraced it. Daksh was with me in every step. I wanted revenge, so i texted his sister. I thought he knew about me and Bhaskar but turned out he lied. I threatened to send his nudes ( giving me a bj) to his mother but in reality I had no picture like that. He was scared and called me multiple times and i didn't pick up.
It's been 926 days now but I'm not able to get over him. No matter what happened I love him . I still write about him in my poetry, I saw him in my dreams (nightmare to be specific). I'm not able to fall in love or trust anyone. I get panic attack almost weekly. I did therapy, meds nothing helped. I'm ruining my life and career and I don't know what to do about. How to let this go. So please give me advices.

Anyone knows where this quote came from or who it originated from?
Was it from a song or from a poem? Or was it just a line that was picked up in university halls and demonstrations?
Why is love so liberating? And why is loving someone so revolutionary?🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️😭

We also did Meehan and Dickinson in class who I can remember the poems and their themes, but don’t know any good number of quotes.

Is 2 or 3 quotes per poem ok? looking for a h3

A lone Warlock, Harlow, dressed in yellow with fur and claws from various beasts he'd slain over the last decade scattered all over his armor sits at a campfire a few miles outside of the City walls. There isn't a single sound to be heard except the crackling of the fire. The stillness of the night and the absence of the Traveler reminded him of the eye of a hurricane; peaceful yet harrowing due to the knowledge of the chaos that looms just beyond the horizon.
“Chilling all by yourself?”
A familiar voice breaks the silence; a Titan, Parzival, dressed in silver and blue armor reminiscent of the Knights from centuries before the Golden Age of humanity. He had his trusty Gjallarhorn strapped to his back, a sight that Harlow had come to find immense comfort in. If shit hit the fan, Parzival would come prepared with an explosive response.
They had met 3 years prior. Ever since then, they'd been inseparable. Some had even speculated they'd been brothers, maybe even twins, in their past lives. There was no way to tell for certain as Wazo was an Awoken and Parzival was a human.
“Just enjoying the peace before we depart.” Harlow replied. “Mind if we join you?” Parzival asked. “We?” Harlow said, turning to look.
Parzival hadn't come alone. Beside him was another Titan named Rose. She was adorned in red and black armor with black fur around the collar. Rose was a powerful Titan who'd been with the pair since they first met. She was an Exo, like Parzival, but she was far more hot-headed than Harlow and Parzival combined. Some say her Solar flames were hotter inside of her than the pools of lava she left behind when she wielded her mighty hammer. Despite that, she was one of the best friends a person could ask for. She was fiercely loyal and wouldn't hesitate to give every one of her lives she could to save those she loved.
Beside them was another Warlock. His name was Jack. He was wearing a trench coat with a journal in a pouch on his hip. He studied the Darkness years before it was widely accepted. He had known Harlow longer than everyone and had seen Harlow through thick and thin. He taught Harlow how to be the Warlock Jack always knew he could be.
Lastly, there was a pair of Hunters. Munch and Demo. They had been his most recent friends but nonetheless impactful. Munch was the youngest, having only been resurrected for the first time a little over a year prior. She wasn't like your average Hunter. She was bubbly and full of energy, which was typical, but she had a very dark sense of humor and preferred the company of a fireteam. She was always easy to spot in a crowd with her brightly colored, pink armor.
Demo was her boyfriend. He had been showing her the ropes of Guardianhood since he first found her wandering the ruins of the Cosmodrome. He had also been a surprisingly welcome addition to Harlow’s circle, even though he was the most recent. His armor was a slick white and purple that looked more like athletic gear than armor. He had been quite the source of jokes and hilarious moments in times of great distress and even at the worst times, like staring down the business end of a Scorn wire rifle.
They all gathered around the campfire with Harlow and Munch handed out some snacks she had made just for this occasion. Although the mood had been lightened, not a word was said. They all knew what was coming. When the time came, they too would enter the Traveler and face the Witness head-on. They had room to fail because the fate of the universe was at stake.
“Let's face it,” Demo said. “It could be worse.”
Harlow and Rose shot him a confused look.
“It could have been Harlow cooking.” Demo said as he took a bite.
They all let out a laugh as Rose said between bites, “He's got a point.”
“Yeah, how did you manage to burn water?” Parzival asked.
“Twice!” Munch added.
Harlow took a bite of his snack and exclaimed “space magic” with his mouth partially full.
“I've seen a lot of things in my time but nothing puzzles me more than that.” Jack said.
When the laughing died down, they sat in momentary silence as they all looked up to where the Traveler now rests in the sky; far above the clouds and barely a dot behind them. Munch’s face saddened as her shoulders sank.
“What if we don't-”
Rose cut her off. “We will. As long as we stick together, we'll be okay.”
The group had then set all their worries aside for the rest of the night and enjoyed each other's company playing games they had learned from the children of the City, sharing stories, and, for the first time, they all slept peacefully. As the sun rose above the horizon, and the skies had cleared, they all woke up slowly. A voice rang out over the Vanguard emergency channel that brought them all to their senses.
“Attention all Guardians,” said the Warlock Vanguard, Ikora. “All available troops are to enter the Traveler. It's now or never. Today, we take back this system.”
Everyone immediately awakened as they all summoned their ships that came like bullets through the clouds mere seconds later and came to hover in a formation above them. All six fireteam members transmat into their respective ships and took off into orbit. Thousands of other ships broke through the clouds alongside them and gathered around the H.E.L.M. capital ship the Vanguard was within just in front of the Traveler’s portal.
“This is where the fun begins.” Harlow said.
He was terrified of what lied beyond the portal because he'd read the reports of the first parties who tried and failed at the cost of their lives forever. However, the confidence he'd found within himself was growing stronger with each second his fireteam was at his side.
“All Guardians,” Zavala’s voice now broke through the emergency channel. “Follow my lead. It's time to end this.”
The H.E.L.M. shot towards the Traveler at full speed and disappeared within the kaleidoscope of Light and Darkness that made up the portal.
“Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more.” Jack said, quoting an ancient poem.
“Take point, Harlow. We're right behind you.” Rose said.
“Always.” Parzival added.
Harlow pushed his throttle into full and shot towards the portal as the vast armada of Guardians around him rocketed into it as well. Pink, purple, blue, orange, and green swirled around his ship and bathed it in the unfathomable energy that the Traveler could create. It was like life and creation itself was dancing around his cockpit as his ship soared through the energy of the portal.
“We're coming up on the exit!” His Ghost, Juno, exclaimed.
A bright flash of white light and he had suddenly felt stronger than he had ever felt before in his one hundred and twelve year life as a Guardian. The Light within him was raw, untamed, and ready to be unleashed. He and his team transmat down to the grassy surface and they all readied their weapons to aid the Guardian forces in the greatest fight for survival humanity had ever, and will ever, see.

May last year, I "attempted". I put it in quotes because I stopped myself before it got anywhere serious and called an ambulance.
After that experience, I decided to commit to being alive. But now, I'm really struggling. My life is in shambles and I don't know how to unfuck it up. I've decided I'm not going to k*ll myself or hurt myself. But I don't know what to do. I feel too tired to heal. I don't really have the resources either.
For context: I'm legally homeless in two countries. I came to Jamaica last year after becoming homeless in England (where I'm from). The plan was to live in my cousin's house and stay for a while so I can have some peace before figuring things out back home. Plus it meant time with family etc.
Now every person in my family has betrayed me, let me down or hurt me for things I haven't done. It's all undeserved punishment for my mum and I'm just in the crossfire. I feel so heartbroken and alone. I ended up asking my dad for money. The dad I tried to disown in November last year.
I have very little motivation to keep going and all my motivation is wrapped up in other people. But within myself, I don't want to go on. I have very few friends, I've struggled with intense anxiety my entire life and have ADHD so I struggle to keep a job. I have dreams but they all feel too far away now.
There's such an immense lack of joy in my life right now and I don't doubt that things will change but I am going to be miserable for the foreseeable future. Not because I'm choosing it. I try to be happy and positive everyday. But there is almost nothing in my near future that I look forward to. Besides seeing my nephew.
But I made a commitment to living my life until it comes to it's natural end. So how did I keep going?
I'm sorry if this doesn't make sense or is hard to read. I'm not with it right now after being in survival mode for so long.
Any advice would be appreciated but please don't tell me how strong I am. It pisses me off honestly. I wish I could be weak and just breeze through life instead of living this nightmare.

our English teacher was like "oh they can't ask quotes from a specific poem" "they can't ask questions about your presentation"
LIES
LIEEEES
the jury started asking "oh do you like the comparison of the umbilical cord and the telephone cable" TF AM I SUPPOSED TO SAAAY

Weird question probably. But looking at any spiritual source.
Eventually you come across statements like:

1. "You are already that which you seek."
   • Source: This phrase is often attributed to the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, a renowned Indian sage and spiritual teacher.
   • Context: Ramana Maharshi emphasized self-inquiry and the realization that one's true self is already enlightened.
2. "The kingdom of God is within you."
   • Source: Jesus Christ, from the Bible, Luke 17:21.
   • Context: This phrase suggests that spiritual enlightenment and divine presence are found within oneself, rather than in external pursuits.
3. "Tat Tvam Asi" (That Thou Art)
   • Source: Chandogya Upanishad, one of the principal Upanishads in Hindu philosophy.
   • Context: This Mahāvākya (great saying) from the Upanishads asserts the fundamental oneness of the individual soul (Atman) and the ultimate reality (Brahman).
4. "Be still and know that I am God."
   • Source: Psalm 46:10, from the Bible.
   • Context: This verse encourages stillness and inner contemplation to realize one's divine nature.
5. "The more you know, the less you understand."
   • Source: Lao Tzu, from the Tao Te Ching.
   • Context: Lao Tzu's teachings often highlight the paradoxes of wisdom and knowledge, suggesting that true understanding comes from transcending conventional knowledge.
6. "I am that I am."
   • Source: Exodus 3:14, from the Bible.
   • Context: This phrase, spoken by God to Moses, reflects the self-existent and eternal nature of divine consciousness.
7. "There is nothing to attain."
   • Source: Bodhidharma, a Buddhist monk who is traditionally credited as the transmitter of Zen to China.
   • Context: Bodhidharma's teachings emphasize that enlightenment is not about attaining something but realizing one's inherent nature.
8. "You have always been one with the Buddha."
   • Source: Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan (Zen) Buddhism.
   • Context: Hui-neng's teachings often stressed that enlightenment is a realization of an already existing state, rather than something to be achieved.
9. "The perfect way is without difficulty, save that it avoids picking and choosing."
   • Source: Sengcan, from the poem "Hsin Hsin Ming" (Verses on the Faith Mind).
   • Context: This Zen teaching emphasizes non-duality and the simplicity of the enlightened state.
10. "All beings are by nature Buddhas, as ice by nature is water."

• Source: Hakuin Ekaku, a prominent Japanese Zen master.
• Context: Hakuin's teachings highlight the inherent enlightenment present in all beings.

1. "Stop seeking and you will find."

• Source: Often associated with various Zen teachings and spiritual traditions.
• Context: This phrase underscores the paradox that seeking enlightenment can obscure the realization that one is already enlightened.

These quotes and teachings from various spiritual traditions emphasize the inherent nature of enlightenment and the paradoxical idea that true realization comes from recognizing what has always been present.
The question this post addresses revolves around the common belief and theme in personal growth: the idea that living through life's hardships brings one closer to enlightenment with each incarnation. The notion suggests a linear progression where each life serves as a step toward eventual enlightenment.
While I understand the logic behind this thinking, it seems to contradict some universal truths we often hear about. For instance, many spiritual teachings claim that "time is just an illusion." If we accept this premise, then the concept of linear incarnations—where we are born, live, die, and are reborn in a sequential manner—doesn't hold up. It implies that there is no straightforward progression of learning lessons across lifetimes.
Why, then, do so many people believe in this linear progression of incarnations as crucial to achieving enlightenment? This belief seems at odds with the teachings that emphasize enlightenment as something beyond learning or progression. Phrases like "There is nothing to be learned, if you could just see that you already are [enlightened]" suggest that enlightenment is an inherent state, not something achieved through successive lifetimes.
Why do we cling to the idea that we are alive for a purpose, specifically to learn or progress through experiences? Spiritual sources often emphasize that enlightenment cannot be learned or comprehended by the mind; it can only be experienced directly.
Perhaps there's nothing wrong with considering that life and our experiences exist simply for the sake of experiencing them. What if the purpose of life is just to live it, with no deeper meaning or progression towards an ultimate goal? This perspective aligns with the notion that enlightenment is an ever-present state, not a distant destination.
In a way...

Isn't the point of learning to know there is nothing to be learned?

Note:

Learning I believe is simply to enhance ones knowledge in a given area the idea there’s nothing to be learned celebrates ignorance.

This concept applies to every area of life, but it seems especially pertinent in the realm of spiritual growth and enlightenment. There comes a point where the wisdom we have learned starts to be lived rather than constantly overwritten by new learning. Instead of endlessly acquiring new knowledge, we may reach a state of simply "knowing" or "being" rather than "trying to become." This doesn't mean that learning stops once a certain level of understanding is reached. Starting to think someone "Knows it all" and stops any deeper learning after. Indeed would be a sign of ingorance.
People often become teachers to deepen their own learning in ways they couldn't achieve otherwise. There's a popular saying about being a lifelong student, regardless of one's level of expertise. This notion underscores the idea that teaching and continuous learning go hand in hand. I would just wish more people understood that especially in critical professions as any Phd professional area, but that's not the topic here.
Pls don't misinterpret this question here as a "celebration of ignorance"

I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?

Is one justified in rejecting the historicity of the life of Jesus if there are no eyewitnesses to Him and His life, and the accounts are decades after He lived? Is this the standard that historians use? Or is it a double standard?
The Strange Case of Hieronymus of Cardia
Hieronymus [356–323 BC] is not a household name, but among historians he’s known for several things. He was an eyewitness to the campaigns of Alexander the Great, but he lived to the age of 104 — long enough to record the first battle between a Roman army and a Hellenistic kingdom. He was a friend and confidant of kings and commanders during the chaotic aftermath of Alexander the Great’s death. He was a military governor in Greece. Furthermore, he managed the asphalt industry on the Dead Sea.
Above all, he is regarded as a key source for many of the most of the history of the years 320–270 BCE. He’s also a prime authority for Plutarch’s famous biographies of Eumenes, Demetrius Poliorcetes, and Pyrrhus. In fact, he’s often cited as the first Greek to write about the rise of Rome.
On the other hand, Dionysius Halicarnassus — writing during the reign of Augustus — called him “a historian no one bothers to finish.” He’s everywhere without being personally a key historical figure.
However:
The bit about him being 104 at the age of his death comes from another author whose work is also lost: Agatharcides of Cnidus who lived roughly sometime in the later 2d century BC — born probably three generations after Hieronymus’ death. We know he discussed Hieronymus because he, in turn, is quoted by Lucian of Samosata (~ 125–180 CE) — about 300 years after Agatharcides and over 400 from Hieronymus.
The oldest surviving work that refers to Hieronymus by name is that of “a certain person named Moschion” who probably would have lived a bit before Agatharcides, writing in Sicily — 750 miles or more from where Hieronymus lived and worked and maybe 75 years after his death. The only thing we know about Moschion is the handful of his pages quoted by Athenaeus, about 450 years after Hieronymus.
There’s no reference to Hieronymus in any Latin source, despite his reputation as an early reporter of Rome. The reference to him being the first Greek to write about Rome comes from Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writing about 250 years after Hieronymus’ death.
Key biographical details — his relationship with Eumenes, his work for the Antigonid dynasty, and his governorship — only show up in Plutarch, 350 years after Hieronymus’ day.
The history for which he is famous is lost; it exists only in paraphrases or name-checks by later writers. Although there are several facts attributed to him, there is no verbatim quote of anything the wrote. It’s a commonplace among historians that Hieronymus is the main source for much of what is interesting and detailed in the work of Diodorus of Sicily, who wrote 200 years or more after Hieronymus’ death.
Diodorus tends to be somewhat wordy and diffuse, but when he covers the age of Hieronymus he suddenly becomes more detail oriented, has interesting anecdotes, and provides reasonable numbers; this is all assumed to come from Hieronymus. However, although Diodorus does refer to Hieronymus (for example, he tells the story of Diodorus’ job in the asphalt bureau in book 19) he never explicitly quotes him. The common assumption is that big chunks of books 18–20 are basically plagiarized from Hieronymus — but naturally, Diodorus doesn’t tell us this himself.
He’s not quoted by Polybius, whose account overlapped with events he wrote about. His most industrious recyclers are Diodorus and Dionysius during the transition from Roman republic to Roman empire (~200 - 250 years), and then Appian and Plutarch in the second century CE (~ 350 - 400 years).
It’s worth pointing out that not only is he not attested very close to his own lifetime — neither are many of the sources which refer to him. Agatharcides for example has no contemporary mentions — he’s cited by Diodorus, and by early Roman-era writers but none closer to him than a couple of generations.
Diodorus, too, is not referred to by his contemporaries — we have to guess when he died from the contents of his book, which does not refer to any event later than around 32 BC. At least his book survives him — about a third of it, anyway. The last complete copy was destroyed during the Turkish sack of Constantinople. There is no evidence for him that does not come from his own writings, and the oldest explicit quotation from him is from Athenaeus in the latter half of the second century CE, over 200 years from his own time.
Of the people mentioned in this piece by name Plutarch, Appian, Athenaeus, and — of course — emperor Augustus are attested by contemporary sources and known by any other means than their own writings. Only Augustus and Plutarch are known from physical objects (the latter from a single inscription). There is an inscription from Diodorus’ hometown in the name of a Diodorus; we have no way of knowing if it’s the same Diodorus and it offers no clue to the date.
This is how a fairly famous person — a widely cited author, diplomat, and friend of kings — fares in the sources. Hieronymus of Cardia is a figure who is completely familiar to ancient historians; if anything they are often over-eager to spot traces of him — he is almost universally assumed to be the source of most of the interesting and detailed bits of Diodorus and Dionysius in the the era of Alexander’s successors. He routinely shows up in any discussion of the early historiography of Rome.
But he does not pass the contemporary mention test by a country mile.
The implication:
Therre are no eyewitness account for the life of Hieronymus of Cardia and no contemporary accounts of him either, yet historians have no doubt or minimal doubt that he existed.
But maybe is just an outlier, surely this is just an anomaly, an exception, an oddity....
What about other well known people from history, they certainly are much more documented than people from Bible, right?
Spartacus 103–71 BC
The story of a slave turned gladiator turned revolutionary has been told and retold many times in media. Although a well-known and much-admired historical figure, Spartacus does not actually have any surviving contemporary records of his life. His enduring fame is in part due to the heroic visage crafted by a priestess of Dionysus, who was also his lover.
The story is mentioned in Plutarch’s biography of Crassus, the wealthy Roman who ultimately put down the uprising led by Spartacus. Parallel Lives was a collection of 48 biographies of prominent historical figures written by the Greek historian in the second century AD. Another major source of information about Spartacus came from another Greek, Appian, writing around a century after the events.
Hannibal born in 247 B.C
Despite how well-known his great deeds as a general are, there are no surviving firsthand accounts of Hannibal - or indeed Carthage at all. The closest thing to a primary source for the Punic Wars between Rome and Carthage is the account written by the Greek historian Polybius around a century later
The historian was alive for the third and final Punic conflict and spoke to survivors of the second war, but obviously did not meet Hannibal himself.
Another major ancient source, which drew on other works from the time that are now lost, was by the Roman historian Livy. The History of Rome was written in the first century AD, but only part of the 142-book collection remains. While not considered as objective as Polybius and far removed from the events, Livy’s work fills in a lot of the gaps.
Alexander the Great 356 - 323 BC
At its peak, his empire stretched from the Balkans to the Indus River. Countless pages have been written of his deeds, but almost all were done long after his was dead
Our only knowledge comes from the much later works that drew on those long-lost pages. Perhaps the most valuable of all was the tome written by his general Ptolemy, who would later found his own great empire. One of the very few written records that survive from Alexander’s time is an incredibly brief mention of his passing in a small clay tablet of Babylonian astronomical reports.
William Wallace 1270 - 1305 AD
The screenplay for the 1995 film Braveheart occasionally drew upon a poem written by a monk known as Blind Harry in the 15th century.
Because Harry's romanticized account was penned more than 150 years after the Scottish hero was tried and executed at the behest of Edward I, it’s not exactly going to be a reliable telling of the tale. One of the few contemporary records comes from a single English chronicle that doesn’t try to be objective: …a certain Scot, by name William Wallace, an outcast from pity, a robber, a sacrilegious man, an incendiary and a homicide, a man more cruel than the cruelty of Herod, and more insane than the fury of Nero…
The passage details an unflattering description of the Scottish defeat at Falkirk in 1298, where Wallace apparently fled the scene before being captured. The time between the loss and his later apprehension was spent in mainland Europe, attempting to raise support for his cause. We know this because one of only two surviving documents personally attached to Wallace is a letter written on his behalf by the King of France to the Pope
Attila the Hun (c. 406-453 AD) was one of late antiquity’s most notorious figures, a brutal conqueror who ransacked the weakened Roman Empire.
Little is actually known of the Huns, as they left little evidence behind, and the few contemporary accounts that remain are from sources not disposed to view them favorably. The surviving fragments of a history of Rome written by Ammianus Marcellinus depict a backward, savage people of unknown origin.
As for Attila himself, much of his early life is the subject of speculation from later authors. Jordanes, a 6th-century Eastern Roman historian, wrote a second hand account as he drew upon the work of Priscus, a fellow Eastern Roman who actually met Attila. Unfortunately, only a few scraps of Priscus’s work remain.
So it seems that historians have no problem in taking as historical, people and events are much less evidence than what the Bible contains.
If anyone uses the "The gospels are not eyewitness accounts" argument to dismiss the Gospels as history, commits the double standard logical fallacy
Objection A - But Jesus is said to be God and rose from the dead. That's a major difference between all these other historical figures
Reply: So, your real objection has to do with the metaphysical implications of saying the Jesus rose from the dead, not the hidtorical nature of the account. That is beyond the scope of this argument.
However, I invite you to read why Philosophical Naturalism [the idea that only the physical exists] is logically self-refuting and why there is evidence for God
Objection B - The eyewitness stuff is important with the Gospels because there is a massive difference between 'I lived with Jesus for a few weeks after he died' and 'I heard others lived with Jesus for a few weeks after he died.
Reply: But the "eyewitness stuff" is apparently not impoertant - see nthe above for how many people/events are considered historical sans eyewitness account. The take Luke, for example, said the he investigated everything from the beginning and wrote an orderly account. This sems to be in line with what other ancient historians did, like Herodotus, Tacitus, Pliny the Younger, Lucian - There is overwhelming evidence for the existence of Jesus of the Bible in ancient non-Christian sources
EDIT: I just updated this post on my blog to include comments from Bart Erhman concerning the historicity of Jesus

Weird question probably. But looking at any spiritual source.
Eventually you come across statements like:

1. "You are already that which you seek."
   • Source: This phrase is often attributed to the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, a renowned Indian sage and spiritual teacher.
   • Context: Ramana Maharshi emphasized self-inquiry and the realization that one's true self is already enlightened.
2. "The kingdom of God is within you."
   • Source: Jesus Christ, from the Bible, Luke 17:21.
   • Context: This phrase suggests that spiritual enlightenment and divine presence are found within oneself, rather than in external pursuits.
3. "Tat Tvam Asi" (That Thou Art)
   • Source: Chandogya Upanishad, one of the principal Upanishads in Hindu philosophy.
   • Context: This Mahāvākya (great saying) from the Upanishads asserts the fundamental oneness of the individual soul (Atman) and the ultimate reality (Brahman).
4. "Be still and know that I am God."
   • Source: Psalm 46:10, from the Bible.
   • Context: This verse encourages stillness and inner contemplation to realize one's divine nature.
5. "The more you know, the less you understand."
   • Source: Lao Tzu, from the Tao Te Ching.
   • Context: Lao Tzu's teachings often highlight the paradoxes of wisdom and knowledge, suggesting that true understanding comes from transcending conventional knowledge.
6. "I am that I am."
   • Source: Exodus 3:14, from the Bible.
   • Context: This phrase, spoken by God to Moses, reflects the self-existent and eternal nature of divine consciousness.
7. "There is nothing to attain."
   • Source: Bodhidharma, a Buddhist monk who is traditionally credited as the transmitter of Zen to China.
   • Context: Bodhidharma's teachings emphasize that enlightenment is not about attaining something but realizing one's inherent nature.
8. "You have always been one with the Buddha."
   • Source: Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan (Zen) Buddhism.
   • Context: Hui-neng's teachings often stressed that enlightenment is a realization of an already existing state, rather than something to be achieved.
9. "The perfect way is without difficulty, save that it avoids picking and choosing."
   • Source: Sengcan, from the poem "Hsin Hsin Ming" (Verses on the Faith Mind).
   • Context: This Zen teaching emphasizes non-duality and the simplicity of the enlightened state.
10. "All beings are by nature Buddhas, as ice by nature is water."

• Source: Hakuin Ekaku, a prominent Japanese Zen master.
• Context: Hakuin's teachings highlight the inherent enlightenment present in all beings.

1. "Stop seeking and you will find."

• Source: Often associated with various Zen teachings and spiritual traditions.
• Context: This phrase underscores the paradox that seeking enlightenment can obscure the realization that one is already enlightened.

These quotes and teachings from various spiritual traditions emphasize the inherent nature of enlightenment and the paradoxical idea that true realization comes from recognizing what has always been present.
The question this post addresses revolves around the common belief and theme in personal growth: the idea that living through life's hardships brings one closer to enlightenment with each incarnation. The notion suggests a linear progression where each life serves as a step toward eventual enlightenment.
While I understand the logic behind this thinking, it seems to contradict some universal truths we often hear about. For instance, many spiritual teachings claim that "time is just an illusion." If we accept this premise, then the concept of linear incarnations—where we are born, live, die, and are reborn in a sequential manner—doesn't hold up. It implies that there is no straightforward progression of learning lessons across lifetimes.
Why, then, do so many people believe in this linear progression of incarnations as crucial to achieving enlightenment? This belief seems at odds with the teachings that emphasize enlightenment as something beyond learning or progression. Phrases like "There is nothing to be learned, if you could just see that you already are [enlightened]" suggest that enlightenment is an inherent state, not something achieved through successive lifetimes.
Why do we cling to the idea that we are alive for a purpose, specifically to learn or progress through experiences? Spiritual sources often emphasize that enlightenment cannot be learned or comprehended by the mind; it can only be experienced directly.
Perhaps there's nothing wrong with considering that life and our experiences exist simply for the sake of experiencing them. What if the purpose of life is just to live it, with no deeper meaning or progression towards an ultimate goal? This perspective aligns with the notion that enlightenment is an ever-present state, not a distant destination.
In a way...

Isn't the point of learning to know there is nothing to be learned?