We never quite grasp that it's the Self who
awakens, not the world. Upon "enlightenment," we expect to see
everything turn to sugar, with a halo around it. But the ordinary
doesn't become extraordinary through any change in form. The ordinary
becomes extraordinary by virtue of the formless Self, who awakens and
perceives its heart in all. Then truth dawns: the ordinary is already a
miracle. Whose innocence do you see in this newborn fawn, if not your
own? How else could you recognize it?
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