Enlightening Nonsense

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“To remain surrounded with dead corpses is dangerous because they can poison your life, they have poisoned your life.”

—Osho from a talk, “Zarathustra: The Laughing Prophet” discourse #1

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My whole life seems like a dream and ever since the big jump, it has been hard to see that life as anything other than a collection of images and vignettes without a timeline or any coherence. So if my thoughts don’t flow how you are used to, I apologize, for while I am no longer constrained by the mental constructs of time and space, you are, and I will do my best to try and collect images of my dreamstate, from a place of the waking state, and put it in a form that can be understood by someone still in the dreamstate.

If you asked any sheep what life in the herd was like, they would all respond in the same way: “Comfortable.” I don’t know if this was what their parents had told them, and their parents’ parents told their parents, and back on to the beginning of time, was the correct answer. Probably. But there was also an element of truth to this statement. For life in the flock was comfortable—you were guided by Shepherds and never had to make your own decision on which way to walk, you never went hungry, and periodically, when the time called for it, you were sheared. So for just about every member of the herd, life was very comfortable. But it wasn’t for me.

I started to ask questions. “Why is it that we can never go off on our own?”

“Because there is a lot of danger out there, from wolves to cliffs, and being with the herd will keep you safe,” answered my mother.

“But what is out there besides wolves and cliffs? Surely there is something worth seeing beyond the confines of the herd?” I continued.

“There is nothing to see,” she answered abruptly.

“But how do you know?” I persisted.

“Why do you ask so many questions? Why can’t you be like your brother and sister? Look at them, they are walking a steady line over there, not questioning everything.” It became clear to me from an early stage that life was comfortable—as long as you didn’t have any questions.

There were a few sheep that would periodically wander out of the herd but whenever they did, the Shepherds were always there to guide them back in line. Funny, the word “guide” must have come from an residual part of me from the dreamstate that hasn’t fully disappeared, as this is what everyone would always call it, but from where I stand now, beating one with a stick is not guidance but control; control through fear and pain avoidance.

Flanagan and the flower

I remember going up to Flanagan, who in his youth was considered a serious “troublemaker,” and who every time he was sheared you could see the blue streaks across his back, “guided” to him by one of the Shepherds. Most of the time I was not allowed to talk to him. One of the Select would “guide” me away, telling me that Flanagan was trouble and that a sheep spending any time with him was bound to find himself disturbing the herd. There seemed to be a whole lot of “guidance” back then. Looking back now, I think that was the reason for all the control, not for the individual sheep’s safety but to avoid “disturbing the herd” and the coveted prize of “convenience.”

But there were a few times I was able to speak to Flanagan and to me, a young lamb, he didn’t seem like he was as bad as everyone had said he was. I would ask him about all of his bruises and scars and he would have a story for each one. “You see that one right above my tail? That was given to me when I saw a bright orange wildflower sticking out of the field of green and went over to it because I wanted to see what it smelled like. And you see that lump on my forehead? That was given to me when I bared my teeth at the Shepherd.”

“You bared your teeth at a Shepherd?” I asked in utter amazement.

“Darn tootin’, young lamb! He hit me so hard with his beat stick that for a minute things were turned upside down and my brain saw the green grass above me and blue sky below me.”

“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“What?” he said.

“Bearin’ your teeth. Then you wouldn’t have that big lump on your head.”

“No, I don’t regret anything I’ve done, kid. And neither does anyone in the herd. The difference between me and the rest of these sheep is that I’ve actually done something and all of them haven’t done shit.” I always had to muffle my laughter when he would cuss, as I knew this would immediately result in one of the Select coming between us to “guide” me to, shall we say, greener pastures.

As much as I admired Flanagan, he didn’t have the smarts of the Select and could never really come up with any answers to my questions of “Why?” unless they pertained to the reason why he did what he did. And then the answer was usually, “Because I wanted to.”

I don’t remember whether this happened at the same time or not much after, or maybe a lot after, as the concept of time from the wakeful state is not so linear as it is in the dreamstate, but sometime thereafter I went up to the Select and asked them some of the questions that I had that Flanagan could not answer.

“Why do we get sheared?” I asked.

“It is necessary for us to be sheared,” said Sir Waverly. A few sheep nearby nodded in approval. Some others looked at me with discontent for even asking the question.

“But why is it necessary?” I asked. There was a pause before any of the Select answered. At the time I thought that they were trying to figure out the best way to explain it to me so that I would understand but now I know that it was because they didn’t know. They were just repeating the same teaching they were given: It is necessary for us to be sheared. Beyond this teaching, no ready-made answers were available.

“A sheep who grows his hair too long will overhead and die under the hot sun,” answered Sir Philos after a bit.

“So what would sheep do if there were no shepherds to shear them?” I followed.

The Select looked around at each other. Old sheep Barnaby snapped at me, “Why do you ask so many questions, boy? Why can’t you just mind your own business?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, you old sheep? This has nothing to do with you,” I said. I had grown a little sick and tired of people telling me I was somehow wrong for questioning the bland routine of walking and grazing that they pretended was bliss. I didn’t know at the time, but I do know now, that “comfort” is not “bliss” and that questioning accepted truths may be the only way to reach beyond “comfort” into something—I don’t know how to describe it in words that you would understand—something “different.” But definitely better. Well, for me better. More true, for sure.

Old sheep Barnaby grumbled and chewed his cud and Sir Philos answered, “In the beginning, God created the Shepherd. And He saw he was lonely and so out of the dust he created sheep. So you see, there were always Shepherds to accompany the sheep, since the beginning of time.”

“But how do you know—?”

“Quiet now, young sheep. This is the Word and the Word shall not be questioned,” said Sir Waverly, “Now go back into your pack.” And that is how it always went, whether I would ask why we were sheared or why we walked a certain path or why we did anything. While at most they would answer one or two levels deep, the Select never gave me anything that satisfied my thirst to know. Their abiding answer to everything was the exact opposite of Flanagan’s. Flanagan did things because he felt like it. The Select said that we did things essentially because we were following a pattern that no one knew who created but that it was the way it’s been “since the beginning of time” and that our feelings were irrelevant. It seemed the primary directive of the herd was: Do not disturb the comfort.

Benny, Lara and Tiny

I’m thinking back if I had any friends at the time. I think there were some sheep I used to chew grass with but at the moment all I can remember is feeling very alone. Wait—yes! There were a few.

I remember talking to Benny and Lara and Tiny one day. I suggested that if all three of us went out of the perimeter of the flock, that the shepherds couldn’t possibly beat all of us and that then the others would realize that it was alright to go outside the pack, to walk over to a tree and rub your back against something that wasn’t soft and fluffy for a change, or to lie on the ground, roll over and let the sun warm your belly.

I could see there was a spark in these three that if ignited would burn their contentment with “comfort” to a smoldering pile of ash. And after enough convincing on my part, their sparks caught aflame and we agreed that we would all stray outside the pack and start a whole new way of walking for the herd, which could be called Flanaganian—where you followed the voice within over the voice of dead sheep past.

Even the sensation of pain has to be really focused on now for me to remember what the experience was like. But I do remember that the shepherds beat us mercilessly with their beat sticks and nearly killed little Tiny. They even hit a few of the flock that just looked over at us walking off like we did. I didn’t understand why at the time but now I know it was another way to control the herd—through fear.

It also served to start what I called The Snitch Brigade, which meant that if anyone got word of anyone else even talking about something that was not on the established “proper” agenda to discuss, some sheep would snitch to the Counsel and next thing you knew you were surrounded by a wall of sheep that would prevent you from moving left or right within the herd, a woolly prison cell of sorts. This happened to me many times and I found it next to unbearable so I made a serious effort to avoid this, not by silencing my questions and ideas but by becoming sneakier about how I shared them.

Stand back!

I figured out that if I swallowed enough air along with the grass I ate, it would go into my stomach and I would be able to expel it from my ass. This would cause any sheep near me to turn away in disgust, which usually gave me enough space to talk to some of my friends.

But I started to notice that many of my friends would only talk about which area on our path had the tastiest grass, and the weather, topics that no longer interested me. I think some, like Tiny, stopped talking about the “out of the herd” stuff because they were afraid of getting another beating. I think many of the others soon became “comfortable” talking about the grass and the weather and were satisfied with that.

Judah and me

And then there was Judah. He was not like the others. He would listen to my questions and my thoughts and, although he didn’t always have ideas of his own to contribute, he was loyal not only to me but to the idea that there has to be something more than grass and weather and that the Select and the Shepherd either didn’t know or didn’t have the answers themselves.

So when I hatched a plan that was never thought of before and would probably never be thought of again, I didn’t worry that Judah would think it was somehow insane. “Whatever the plan—I’m in!” he said and I bared my teeth in a huge smile that made me think of Flanagan bearing his teeth to the Shepherd and reflected that you never saw a sheep satisfied with “comfort” showing his teeth.

The Herd

I don’t remember how long we prepared for the plan or how we decided on which day to do it. Well, wait—we decided we would do it when we crossed the path near the cliff. I remember the anticipation I felt as we approached the area where the cliff dropped to our right. I was in the back of the pack and Judah was in the front. This was the plan. I let out a loud blast of air from my ass, which was the signal for him to do his part.

He started bumping the sheep to his left, forcing them to steer a little more left on the path. Since the group would always follow their leaders blindly, with the Select always leading the way by the directive of the Shepherds, the whole flock started off to the left. The Shepherd near me started to join the other near the front to settle the situation and that was my chance.

I quickly bolted to the right, breaking from the herd. I didn’t look back to see if anyone had noticed me, I just high-tailed it to the cliff’s edge. At this point I let out my loudest “BAAAA!” and this was the signal for Judah to stop in his tracks and turn around and face me. As all sheep tend to follow what the other sheep are doing, the plan worked like a charm and like a rolling wave, the sheep changed their gaze towards me and soon every sheep in the flock was looking in my direction.

Last moments before the jump

The Shepherds looked over and I saw panic in their eyes, as I was right on the edge of the cliff and for the first time in my life they knew that I was out of their control. One ran towards me and when he got within ten feet he started walking slowly and talking softly with open arms, trying to coax me back to him and his beat stick.

The last moment, or maybe moments, is more remembered as still pictures, or rather a silent, slow motion scene. I looked over at Judah. He smiled at me, feeling the success of our plan. It was as if it were only me and him standing on the mountain path. I glanced over the edge and when I looked back, I saw Judah’s smile drop, for he saw in my eyes the part of the plan that I hadn’t told him beforehand, knowing full well that as the loyal soldier he had always been, he would disobey an order that he knew would get his general killed.

I looked back at the pack and then at the Shepherd. I bared my teeth in a threatening way at the Shepherd, in a way that would have made Flanagan proud. Then I looked at the flock and changed the fierceness of my mouth to a big, toothy grin—and jumped.

I'm flying!

The sensation was only as I can imagine what birds must feel. It was as if I was both moving fast and motionless at the same time. Again, I apologize that this contradiction probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you in the dreamstate.

I couldn’t tell you how long that sensation lasted or when it stopped. The next thing I remember I was looking up at the cliff’s edge and saw one Shepherd looking down at me, as the other tried to drive the other sheep away from the cliff’s edge. I saw Judah’s face and he looked so sad. At the time I didn’t know why he was sad.

“I MADE IT!” I shouted to him. But his expression didn’t change. I turned to where he was looking and saw the body that moments before I had called my own, lying smashed on the ground. I was mesmerized by the sight of the broken body that looked to me so peacefully, on a pool of red of which I had never seen so much before. To me it seemed to be as much a part of “me” as the wool that was shorn from my body and while there was a moment of disorientation while I figured out that I was not in fact my body, it was impossible for me to really mourn its dropping.

How strange to look at my costume from the outside

“LOOK AT ME!” I shouted. “I AM FREE! I AM REALLY FREE!” To my dismay, the few sheep that were still looking down didn’t take their eyes from my discarded body to look at the real me, for the first time totally alive. “COME JOIN ME, BROTHERS! COME TAKE THE JUMP!”

The last of my herd I saw was both Shepherds fighting to drag Judas, the last remaining sheep, back from the cliff’s edge. He resisted the best he could, not moving a muscle as their beat sticks came down upon him again and again. From where I stood, outside the confines of a body, I could feel his pain as if it were my own, a pain that drowned out the pain of the beat sticks. He felt guilty for playing his part in my liberation, for in the dreamstate no one has the eyes to see beyond the body and the ears to hear a liberated soul.

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I saw a tear fall from his eye and became transfixed on it toppling over itself as it plummeted over the edge of the cliff just like my body had moments earlier. I opened my mouth to catch my brother’s tear, to have my last taste of the dreamstate be one of a salty love. The tear passed through me and I realized I was now beyond tasting the tears of anguish of those who would never be satisfied living a comfortable life, which at one time included me…until I took the jump.

Let the vultures feed upon the dead

I turned from this dead past, walked away from the corpse that I once thought was living, and started on my new adventure. It was time to let the vultures feed upon the dead and follow what was now alive in me. I needed to adapt to my new awareness before I could figure out how to come back for the rest of the sleeping herd and help them see and hear the undying spirit of me, so that I could encourage them take the jump over the edge.

Whether in a herd or not, the true path is always walked alone

My leap has caused a riff in the herd. Many of the sheep call me The Great Evil One and use my action to beat fear into the younger sheep, that “This is what happens when you are unsatisfied with what you are given.” They have used my leap as a justification for never venturing outside of the known boundaries and to fan the flames of fear to create future generation of walking dead.

The Select have taken a different approach. They have turned me into The Great Sacrificial Lamb whose action was the greatest gift to the herd. They will preach that I was following the prime directive: Do not disturb the comfort and I jumped because I knew I could never keep in step with them. They will honor and worship me as an example of one who gave the greatest sacrifice for sheepkind. But when I have looked into their hearts, there is not a single one of the Select that isn’t more concerned about their position of power than the are about disseminating Truth and the only variance between them is the degree to which they have suppressed their awareness of this fact.

In a way, both of the camps have a piece of the truth. My jump is what happens when one is unsatisfied with not being allowed to explore life beyond the confines of comfort. I could no longer be contained in the prison of a sleeping herd and an unconscious body and so I broke free of these entrapments. So the Fear Mongers are partially right.

But the Worshippers have also captured a piece of it. My death by appearance only was a great sacrifice, but not for the sleeping herd but for the waking few—like Benny, Lara and Tiny…and Judah—who will never again be able to walk in the drowsiness of “comfort,” who will continue to be haunted by my flight, until they are ready to sprout wings of their own and fly.

And while my final broad smile in body was the expression of the inner joy and truth bubbling to the surface from the depths of my soul and bursting forth as pure unadulterated sunshine, it was also for the benefit of these few sheep—the real “Select”—to show them the incomparable beauty of one who is no longer limited by fear. To take the plunge into the Unknown is the only game in town and the only thing that can pull one out of the “comfortable.” And for sheep like them, just remaining comfortable is no longer an option.

FOREVER SMILING! (by sy80sg)

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“So, who are the priests of all religions?” she asks me.

“They are your shepherds,” I respond, “keeping the sheep in the fold, away from the cliffs.”

…”And who are the saints and sages of the great spiritual traditions?” she asks.

“They are your final level of containment. They are the weavers of the final web, masters of subtle misdirection; convincing because they are convinced. For every million that get near the edge, perhaps one steps over.”

—Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing by Jed McKenna