I’m writing this on a train, early morning after rush hour. Looking around at commuters while I digest a paragraph from Hawkin’s book, I received a flash of intuitive description.
I saw clearly the place of the ego and mind, in myself.
Imagine that I’m sitting in a room, watching a painter paint a sunset. I would think that is what the sunset looks like. Now imagine that I’ve spent so long relying on the painter to give my view of the world that I’ve forgotten that I can look out the window myself.
The intuitive vision looked like the watcher who was watching a screen was me and the painter was my ego painting slowly, in a limited way, as much as it could see and draw.
