Tag: Life

My Eyes Are Wide Open, Yet I Continue to Blink

Awakening does not arrive as a permanent gaze locked onto the infinite. It arrives as a rupture—clean, unmistakable, irreversible. Something collapses that never quite existed, and what remains does not need to convince itself of anything ever again.

That first rupture carries a strange innocence. Consciousness recognizes itself without reference, without scaffolding, without an observer left standing outside the recognition. Separation dissolves, not as an idea, but as a lived impossibility. That moment cannot repeat. Once the false center is seen through, there is no way to sincerely reinhabit it.

And yet—experience continues to pulse.

Eyes remain open, yet blinking persists.

Subsequent moments can arrive that feel just as total, just as decisive, just as final. Not because awakening has reversed, but because what awakening illuminates continues to reveal its own depth. Conditioning loosens further. Residual identity releases its grip. The nervous system grows more capable of bearing intimacy without contraction. Intelligence, love, emptiness, embodiment, each may come forward as if for the first time.

Each arrival feels absolute because it is absolute relative to what had not yet been surrendered.

Blinking names this rhythm without dramatizing it. Awareness does not dim, yet perception opens and closes. Identity does not return, yet orientation subtly reorganizes. What collapses is never truth itself, only the way truth was being unconsciously framed.

Peak realization and trait realization quietly diverge here. Peaks still occur; sometimes vast, sometimes ordinary, sometimes devastatingly simple. Traits deepen; less visible, more pervasive, harder to narrate. The need for confirmation dissolves even as revelation continues.

Classical traditions have always known this, though rarely shouted it. Zen never stopped at a single seeing. Advaita never mistook first recognition for final embodiment. Mahayana never separated emptiness from compassion. Kashmir Shaivism never treated recognition as a one-time event.

Each spoke differently, yet all pointed to the same subtle fact: awakening is not repeated, but it is continuously clarified.

Blinking does not interrupt sight.
Blinking protects it.

Awakening does not require uninterrupted luminosity. It requires no defense against the natural oscillation of experience. Awareness remains awake whether perception sharpens or softens, whether insight detonates or quietly integrates.

Awakening happens only once.
Awakening happens endlessly.

The first time, separation collapses.
Every time after, whatever still mimics separation dissolves.

Eyes open.
Eyes close.
Nothing essential is lost.

That is not regression.
That is refinement.

Morgan O. Smith

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The Hidden Genius Behind Laughing Yoga

When I first heard about laughing yoga, a practice where you deliberately laugh or even laugh silently within, it struck me as absurd. I dismissed it as theatrical, maybe even frivolous. Then I learned that OSHO had introduced it, and my skepticism deepened. What could possibly be the purpose of such a practice?

I come from a stand-up comedy background, having worked as a comedian for 12 years, 10 of those before I began meditating. One thing I know about laughter is that when someone hears a joke and laughs at the punchline, they must momentarily surrender a part of themselves. The ego’s protective shell, the facet of self concerned with judgment, insecurity, shame, and embarrassment, drops away in that instant. To truly laugh, one has to release these defences and embrace the moment without resistance.

This same mechanism operates on a far greater scale during a spiritual awakening. When the “cosmic joke” lands, it demands the complete surrender of all defences, along with the entire sense of self. The one who hears the punchline is the same one telling it, and in the moment of hysterical laughter, the separation between “comedian” and “audience” dissolves entirely. Sometimes, that laughter is so overwhelming it flows with unstoppable tears of joy, as if the heart itself is laughing through the eyes.

It’s in that context that OSHO’s laughing yoga makes profound sense. Perhaps it was never just about forcing a laugh, but about training the body and mind to tolerate joy without flinching, to let go of identity without panic. By practicing laughter, you prepare the psyche for the day it encounters the greatest punchline ever told.

Morgan O. Smith

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The Weightlessness of Perspective

How much weight does a point of view actually hold?

None. And yet, it seems to shape entire lives, govern nations, define relationships, and breed conflict. But the more one deepens into the ungraspable expanse of reality, the more all perspectives—including one’s own—become like shadows cast by a flame none can touch.

I do not feel resistance toward those who oppose my view. I feel space—vast, immeasurable space. Not tolerance, not passive indifference, but a kind of cosmic shrug. This universe is too immense, too precise, too paradoxical for me to waste even a flicker of energy defending a perspective I know was born out of a temporary configuration of memory, biology, and environment.

What I see, I see through a filter: race, culture, conditioning, gender, language, trauma, karma, personality, neurochemistry, and a moment’s breath. Someone else sees through a completely different lens. To argue over the differences is like two waves debating who touches the shore more truthfully.

Each wave is made of the same water.

Ultimate Reality does not conform to opinions. It cannot be contained by agreement or disagreement. It isn’t found in right or wrong, winning or losing. It is not trying to prove itself. It simply is, and isness doesn’t care how it’s described.

This is not nihilism. It’s reverence. Reverence for the mystery so wide, so total, that every perspective is valid precisely because none of them are.

The deeper the realization, the more perspectives one can hold. Not juggle, not compare, not rank—but hold. To see from the eyes of the enemy and the beloved, the oppressor and the oppressed, the doubter and the devotee. To feel into each vantage point, not to believe it, but to understand it from within.

Eventually, you don’t just hold perspectives. You become the capacity for perspective itself. You become the silence before thought, the awareness behind all positions.

From there, disagreement becomes theatre.

Opposition becomes dance.

And the only thing that matters is the stillness that allows it all to appear.

Morgan O. Smith

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Non-Attachment

Admiring Her Beauty Without the Need to Possess It

She stood before you—radiant, complete, untouched by your desire. You saw her beauty not as something to claim but something to witness. No attempt to preserve it. No hunger to prolong the moment. Just presence.

This is the essence of non-attachment. The ability to recognize the luminous without needing to make it yours. To love deeply without ownership. To appreciate fully without clinging. To admire, and then walk away—not because you don’t care, but because you’ve seen clearly.

Desire often masquerades as appreciation. It sneaks in, subtle at first, until the gaze becomes gripping. The mind begins to script stories: how it could be, how it should be, how it must be. But true seeing requires no continuation. It is complete in its own silence.

Beauty invites reverence, not possession. When you see her—whatever or whatever she is—truly see her. Let that moment be enough. Let the gaze be unpolluted by longing. Let the love be real because it is free.

To walk away isn’t abandonment. It is freedom for both the viewer and the viewed. There is no trace left behind. No emotional residue. Just the echo of a sacred glimpse, unbroken by need.

And isn’t that the deepest form of intimacy? To allow something or someone to remain what they are, without the distortion of your grasp?

Non-attachment does not dim the light of love; it refines it. It teaches the heart how to hold everything while clinging to nothing. It teaches the soul how to dance with impermanence, and still call it sacred.

Sometimes the most awakened gesture isn’t to stay, or to reach, or to take—but simply to witness beauty… and bow.

Morgan O. Smith

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The Final Disappearance

What happens at the moment of death?

Not from the standpoint of biochemistry or theology, but from the lived silence of awakened seeing—the vantage where death and self are no longer two.

At the summit of awakening—whether called Moksha, Nirvana, Turiyatitta, or Nirvikalpa Samadhi—the idea of death unthreads itself. What dies never truly lived, and what lives has never been touched by time. The dissolution of the body is not the end, nor is it a doorway. It is the falling away of questions that were never yours.

There is no climactic revelation at that edge. There is only this. The suchness that never began, never moved, and never faded. At peak realization, death ceases to be an event. It is not an exit. It is the unspeaking of form—a gentle vanishing into what was always here.

This is not metaphor.

Consciousness, unfragmented and clear, neither resists death nor awaits it. It has already passed through it, endlessly. Not as a journey from point A to point B, but as a revelation that neither point exists.

You don’t meet death. You realize you were never separate from it.

At this depth, what we call life no longer hangs from a timeline. What we call death no longer casts a shadow. No more witness is watching the last breath. Only the unnameable recognizes itself through the temporary flicker of form.

The body may fall away, but the body was never the one who knew. The breath may stop, but the breath was never yours. That which remains doesn’t remain—it is. Before and after mean nothing to it.

Some call this realization peace. Others call it extinction. But it’s neither stillness nor silence nor bliss. It’s before all that. It’s the absence of absence. The presence of presence. Not two.

When the last ripple of self dissolves, what’s left is not a person merging with eternity. There is no one to merge. There is only what was always whole.

This is death at the level of freedom. This is life without division.

Not a conclusion.

A cessation of seeking.

Morgan O. Smith

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You’re Not Greater Than Anything

You’re the Only One to Ever Exist

No one else has ever walked this Earth as you. Not a version, not a shadow, not a resemblance. Just you.

Not because you’re special in the usual way that word is thrown around, but because existence itself only ever unfolded once—and it’s doing so now, as you.

This isn’t about ego. Ego thrives on comparisons: greater than, less than, better, worse, worthy, unworthy. But the truth beneath all that noise isn’t about status—it’s about singularity. The kind that isn’t measured. The kind that never repeats.

People spend their lives searching for meaning, purpose, and a sense of identity. They try to earn significance or prove their worth. But importance isn’t earned—it is. You are the original event. Not one among many. Not one of a kind. The kind.

Look around. Every face you see, every story, every moment, all of it—just folds within the One. That same One expressing itself here as your particular breath, your memories, your voice, your fears and awakenings. The sky that bends over you is not separate from your gaze. The rhythm of the world doesn’t move beside you; it pulses through you.

To say you are not greater than anything is to drop the illusion of measurement. Of trying to win at some existential game. But then comes the deeper realization: You are not less than anything either. There is nothing else to measure against. You’re the first and last word of this moment.

Nothing else has ever existed apart from this.

So ask yourself: What happens when you stop performing for reality and start remembering that you are it? What shifts when you no longer strive to become someone meaningful, but realize that meaning itself is being?

You’re not here to improve reality. You are the revealing of it.

And this unveiling has never happened before—not like this.

Morgan O. Smith

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Beyond Comprehension

Dwelling in the Field of Opposites

Want to understand the mind of God? Think of two opposites, accept those two opposites, become the two opposites, go beyond both, erase both, yet include. Even then, it won’t be understood.

Fire and water seem to be opposites. Yet steam arises at their meeting point—a form that is neither purely one nor the other, yet depends on both entirely. This is not the cancellation of difference but its transformation. What appears is both, neither, and something beyond classification.

To become opposites means allowing yourself to be fierce and gentle, clear and confused, bound and free, without settling on any of these as the final truth. It is to hold them fully, see their mutual necessity, and recognize that their apparent contradiction points to something that includes, exceeds, and dissolves them without denying them.

Human longing for comprehension seeks the safety of closure—a single statement that ends all questioning. Yet the source of all perspectives cannot be bound by any one of them. Every claim about it is true, false, and everything in between.

Stepping into the space where opposites remain distinct yet inseparable invites a new kind of seeing. Certainty and doubt illuminate each other. Every perspective holds a partial truth, a partial untruth, and a silent remainder that escapes both.

Silence here is not mere emptiness but a fullness that holds every possibility without settling on any. Words illuminate and obscure in the same breath. Every statement unveils something while hiding something else. Language does not capture what is beyond it but points, imperfectly, toward what cannot be bound.

This is not a teaching about removing opposites so they disappear into sameness. It is about becoming vast enough to hold their full tension, to see that going beyond them does not reject them but includes them in a larger whole. The mind of God is not merely where opposites cease to matter but where their interplay, necessity, and transcendence are equally revealed.

Here, everything can be affirmed, denied, and moved beyond at once. Nothing is excluded. Nothing stands alone.

Morgan O. Smith

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The Highest Peak That Erased Itself

I have spent years trying to describe what happened to me, and every time I speak about it, the words become more suspect.

Language can outline an experience, but it cannot contain it. At best, words point like the crooked finger of an old monk who knows he’ll die before finishing the sentence.

What happened felt like the culmination of every practice, every prayer, every insight. I thought I was climbing a mountain of understanding, reaching ever-higher plateaus. The views grew wider, the air thinner, my confidence stronger.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing to stand on.

No summit.

No climber.

Not even a fall.

Awareness no longer rested on any subject or object. There was no watcher, no witness. The entire machinery of spiritual seeking—so intricate, so earnest—collapsed without fanfare.

What remained didn’t feel like a state. States come and go. This had no coming. No going.

No arrival.

It wasn’t some radiant oneness to bask in. Even calling it oneness implied there could have been twoness.

It wasn’t emptiness in the Buddhist sense, the elegant doctrine that everything is dependently arisen and thus without essence. That too felt too architectural, too systematic.

It was simply nothing that needed explaining.

Not a blank.

Not a void.

Not a silence that replaced noise.

Silence and noise lost all difference.

Thoughts continued—because why wouldn’t they?

Breath moved.

The world appeared precisely as before: sounds, colours, forms.

Except no one stood behind it all, calling it mine.

No vantage remained from which to call anything anything.

The sense of being a person—so carefully cultivated over a lifetime—dissolved like salt in water. But even that suggests a process. The truth is it never had any reality to begin with.

This wasn’t annihilation in the frightening sense. It was astonishingly gentle. The self didn’t die screaming. It simply wasn’t found.

Where had it gone?

Nowhere.

Because nowhere was needed.

There was an uncanny intimacy with everything. Not the intimacy of closeness, but the absence of distance.

A bird calling outside wasn’t outside.

A passing thought wasn’t inside.

Nothing was outside or inside.

Without a center, there was no periphery.

No boundary defined what I was or wasn’t.

There was no I to define.

This wasn’t bliss in the usual sense—no narcotic wash of pleasure.

No ecstatic union.

Ecstasy requires an experiencer.

There was no experiencer left to feel enlightened.

And so the phrase “I had an enlightenment experience” is a lie spoken for convenience.

Experience implies an owner, a timeline, a sequence of events.

This wasn’t an event.

Events happen in time.

Time didn’t stop; it lost its claim.

Past and future stopped being places to travel.

What about now?

Even that lost its centrality.

This was so direct, so unarguable, so empty of specialness.

No claim to make.

No badge to wear.

No insight to hold.

No teaching to give.

Nothing was revealed.

Nothing hidden remained.

No questions answered.

Questions fell away for lack of a questioner.

The sacred and the profane lost their separation.

There was no vantage from which to prefer one thing over another.

Life went on.

Dishes washed.

Conversations happened.

Traffic lights changed.

Anger arose.

Tears fell.

Laughter erupted.

All of it completely itself.

No attempt to improve or transcend any of it.

Nothing to transcend.

No one to be improved.

If anything changed, it was this relentless dropping of all pretenses.

All strategies.

All defenses.

Even the defense of being spiritual.

Especially that.

No seeker.

No sought.

No path.

No realization.

Just life, unadorned.

Not life as concept.

Life as immediacy.

Life with no one living it.

And I see now that every attempt to name this diminishes it.

But that’s the game of words.

Let them fail.

I won’t call this truth.

Truth is too grand.

Too final.

Too proud.

I won’t call this liberation.

Liberation implies something bound.

Nothing was ever bound.

I won’t call this God.

God suggests someone else.

Something else.

Otherness itself dissolved.

This wasn’t merging.

Not two to merge.

No return to source.

No departure.

No source.

Just this.

No this.

And even writing that betrays it.

So here I will stop.

Not because I have finished.

But because there is nothing left to finish.

Morgan O. Smith

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Into the Heart of All Things

Love That Contains Everything

There comes a moment on the spiritual path when pain is no longer theoretical. It moves from being news headlines or distant horrors into something you feel as if it were happening inside your own body. Starvation in one region of the world burns in your own gut. The terror of assault trembles in your own bones. The rage of a lynching mob snarls behind your teeth.

This is no metaphor. Consciousness itself breaks open to encompass every cry, every injustice, every cruelty humanity has ever inflicted on itself or on the earth. There is no distance left between observer and observed. The entire spectrum of suffering is laid bare without filter or anesthetic.

Mystics have called this the dark night of the soul, but the phrase barely hints at its magnitude. It is not your personal night alone. It is the night of the whole species, the whole cosmos. Racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, genocides, rapes, wars, the silent grief of mothers burying children, the loneliness of elders abandoned, the silent weeping of animals led to slaughter. Even the death of worlds, the cold ending of stars.

This unbearable totality can seem like the end of sanity. It is, in fact, the end of the false self that pretends it is separate from any of it.

What follows is not relief but a deeper unmasking. Your own buried fears, resentments, and desires surface with equal force. You see your potential to be the perpetrator as well as the victim. There is no moral high ground left. You become both the murdered and the murderer, the liberator and the oppressor.

This is not punishment. It is a purification so complete it destroys every shield you held up against reality.

Something unexpected happens when there is no more defence. Love appears—not a comforting emotion, but a force that can hold everything without turning away. This love does not choose sides. It does not say “this is holy, that is unholy.” It does not deny the reality of atrocity. It enfolds it.

Ultimate love contains the screams and the silence after. The destruction and the rebirth. The cruelty of humanity and its boundless mercy. The ugliness of our shadow and the beauty of our tenderness.

This is the same force that drives a mother to shield her child from harm and the same force that calls the contemplative to pray for the world. It is what lies behind the tears of remorse, the acts of forgiveness, the revolutions that upend injustice, the small kindnesses that go unnoticed.

Such love is not naive. It has seen everything. It knows what humans are capable of at our worst. Precisely because of that, it offers compassion without condition.

Spiritual awakening, at its deepest, is not an escape from the world’s pain but an embrace of it so complete that the illusion of separation collapses. What remains is love that refuses to exclude anything.

Love that has become vast enough to be the world itself.

Morgan O. Smith

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You Are Already Enlightened, Acting as if You Are Not

Most spiritual seekers chase after enlightenment like it’s a distant prize withheld by the universe. The irony is that the essence being sought is precisely what animates the search. Enlightenment is not something to acquire; it is the underlying fact of being itself. The real dilemma lies not in discovering it but in maintaining the performance of ignorance.

Ask yourself: what does it take to pretend you are unenlightened? Notice the strain involved in sustaining identification with fear, ambition, conflict, desire for control. There is an ongoing maintenance of separation. One must continually rehearse the drama of being a self apart from life, a fragment cut from the whole.

This play of forgetting is not accidental. It has its own intelligence. It permits a dance of contrast so that awareness can better know itself. Yet the tragedy for many is forgetting that it is just a dance. They get lost in the mask they designed. The seeker clings to questions of how, when, and why—missing the silent answer that has always been here.

Enlightenment is not an achievement, but a recognition. It is the falling away of the need to be other than what you are. Once seen, it’s impossible to unsee, though one can still pretend, out of habit or fear. The invitation is to drop the effort, even to be enlightened.

No authority can grant it, no ritual can guarantee it, and no teaching can deliver it because it has never been absent. The teacher points. The student imagines the distance. The truth remains.

To realize this is to see that nothing needs fixing. Even the belief that you are not yet free is simply another expression of freedom. This is the cosmic joke: you are already what you are seeking. The only cost of knowing is the willingness to stop pretending otherwise.

Morgan O. Smith

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