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In these divisive times, it feels somewhat comfortable to gravitate toward an existing train of thought. This train goes left, and this one right.
Invariably, some of us shout at those who ride what we may perceive as the “wrong” train. Who determines the ‘wrongness’ of a particular train of thought? Who determines if it is “right?” Are not concepts of wrong or right arbitrary at best, catastrophic and limiting at worst?
Recently, I came across a passage in Meeting Life by Krishnamurti. In it, he suggests that to be “ really revolutionary” means “non-acceptance of any pattern set by oneself or another, no sense of conformity, nor accepting any sort of authority, which means freedom from fear” (1991, p. 118).
Out of this freedom, we can “live a totally different kind of life” (p. 118-119). This is not a life established by those who have come before us nor a life experienced in the abstract.
No, life is not an abstraction nor can its meaning be captured in “brilliant articles” by “clever men” (p. 124). So what is life about?
Krishnamurti says it is about love, but do any of us see this love today? We do not love. “We have become brutal, callous, indifferent, ruthless. Without love you can solve nothing” (p. 125).
Krishnamurti uttered these words more than 50 years ago, yet their relevance to today cannot be overstated. Why don’t we love? This is the question.
Why don’t we love sunsets and shooting stars? Why don’t we love each other, especially the ones who grace our lives with their presence?
It is remarkably easy to allow oneself to drift into what is known. When something is known, something is lost.
Perhaps freedom from the known means rediscovering the mystery and the mysteries present in the experience of everyday life. A bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. A piece of homemade bread with melted butter and orange marmalade. A single solitary butterfly wafting through the air on a Saturday morning in June just before 9 AM.
I also love trains, regardless of the direction they may travel, because ultimately they all return to the same station. Who runs this station?
Perhaps, this station is not a station at all. Perhaps, it is simply an open space, boundless, without tracks or timetables, through which we pass.
What if the real journey is not about choosing the right train but stepping off entirely? What if love is not found in the direction we take, but in the stillness between arrivals and departures?
Perhaps freedom is not about the next destination but rather about looking very deeply—past the station lights, past the timetables, past the tracks—into the infinite self.
