No.782

Behind the sky-blue gate of no. 782 Route du Village is the quaint yellow house where all things are worked out, your karma attained, where you see that life is right here and now and what has passed or what’s yet to come is just part of life designed to reveal to you what you haven’t absorbed yet, what you’re still having trouble with, that trouble being precisely nothing.

This place has a certain magic and you will see when you get here that all the people you greeted, brushed shoulders and passed the time of day with, the no-ones, the bit-parts, people you got no juice from, those not able to judge you enough to make it worthwhile giving  a dime of your time, all those amorphous hordes at airports and in planes, in  theatres  and bars, people strewn across beaches  and lakeside promenades, appendages, stray data, dust flicked off an old coat sleeve, people who didn’t look at you long enough to see who you truly are, thoroughly and straight down your eye-line, all those times you dragged your soles on a path or roadside on the way back to your car, rather forlornly or even absentmindedly, shoulders hung heavy, you will see that all those people and times, all those minute moments seemingly trivial and disparate and discombobulated are the ones that make up your  life, they are sacrosanct and real, each and every conferring a meaning not in  the actual content of the experiences — the content being just a bewildering spectacle intended to deceive —  not even in the content of the feelings, those brutal overpowering feelings that take you over, but in the mere fact that they came to pass and are, and then you will see that no other time or feeling, sense or thought or anything that you haven’t experienced is not something you need to experience, need ever take note of, can ever be in your  purview, down to the very blueprint of your soul which is inalterable, the curve of your left fingernail over the left cuticle for instance, that inculcated felt sense that you take to be you, as everything you are and have been and seen as you. 

And what you felt was not relevant, that gnawing sense it was always all wrong, all those places you felt you shouldn’t have been or didn’t deserve to have to suffer in, all the places you didn’t see and feature in, home between four bruising walls, feeling not to be a part of anything not nearly remotely meaningful enough to warrant your existence as a separate living breathing being, a thing with feelings, desperate yelping  needs, your family and friends for instance, oh your horrible family, and that all that you see hear or feel wherever you are is inherently pure. 

In this place in southern France by this walled garden and yellow house are four perfect identikit bedrooms housing four rather perfect king-size beds with four basic colours of bedspread and cold outsized floor tiles and some parquet and curtains held back by thin knotted threads which you need  pull apart like  shoe laces to  unleash their Provençale splendour and always this fresh Japanese/lavender scent in the bedrooms  and in the garden an orange tree and bulbous water-urn plant pots housing geraniums and gladioli and nothing much more in the way of flora. 

In this place in southern France it will suddenly hit you that there is nothing that needs to be done to make you whole, to make you who you are and were always intended on being.  And that you have always been that since as far as you can recall. You will be beset by a wrenching feeling in your gut allied to the love that you are, pointing to the love that you embody, that you have been holding back to yourself, which is the love that when given to others is reflected back onto yourself in droves, a love that makes you soar, and fly, that solves everything you ever toiled under.

If you are fortunate enough to go to this yellow house and know this insight and see that all your efforts have been in vain and always will be, if you are fortunate to be still living at this juncture, this haphazard  moment of your existence, then you can ride the chariot to heaven because heaven is very close to this normal but magical place, it is over your left shoulder at the end of the hedgerow, and in the evening a timid crescent moon will emerge from behind a clump of backlit clouds where the stars will appear as people you’ve known long since departed and all will be available now as it is and was always, for now and for ever Amen.