Unchanging

I stand still in the midst of my surroundings. Inside I change, but outside I am as unchanging as the things that surround me.

What does my difference on the inside mean when, by all accounts, my outside is endless and unchanging?

Perhaps the outside shifts and morphs. But it is merely a rearranging of what has always been, not an actual change to something new.

My inside changes because it is nothing. It is nothing substantial and it is nothing one can grasp. This leaves it free to be whatever it needs to be, but not whatever I wish it to be. It changes not to the things I will; it changes first and convinces me that I have willed a change.

I have never sincerely made a change. I have only been witness to changes that, in the moment, I thought I authored. I am not, and never have been, the writer of any book or the creator of anything. I am, and always have been, the space in which change occurs, the space in which nothing changes, and I am the observer inside it all.

Inside changes occur. Outside all remains unchanged. I am both this space and all that arises within it. And in that – I am unchanging.

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