What is real?
I am deep in daily inquiry around that question.
I look around and witness people living in different realities, seemingly different worlds. They engage in fierce battles over “what is real”. I participate sometimes.
I fight within myself over what is real.
Every. Single. Day.
I confront fear, anxiety, depression, all the dark corner phantoms. They insist on their power, their realness. I tell them they are not real. Sometimes I win, and they retreat at those words, a banishing incantation.
They come back.
Are things that we can’t catch hold of real or unreal? Truth or untruth?
I go out in the woods and down to the river. That is the realest real there is. The dirt, the water, the trees, the sky. The wordless depths of nature. Life, death. The pure struck note of beingness.
When I am back in civilization and all the questions come flooding back. I try to remember that right now the trees are there, the river is flowing, things are living and dying, coming and going, and that pure note is being struck.
I am here, and someday I will be gone.
That is real.