We talk about “other people”—falling in love with them, being in relationship with them, being in conflict with them, ending relationship with them, meeting them, understanding them, having and losing them—but do we ever really directly experience others as outside ourselves? Or is our experience of other people always inseparable from our own stories—our own thoughts, beliefs, assumptions, projections, prejudices—about them? Are “others” really “other” to us? Are they really separate from what we are?
Just as we never really experience an outside world—a world outside of present experience, as we have seen—do we ever really experience other people as “out there”? When we relate to someone, who are we actually relating to? Are we simply relating to an image we have created of them, rather than to who they really are in the moment, here and now? Do we end up missing others as they are in this moment in our attempt to hold onto our own story of them, our own version of who they are? Do we always view others through the filters of history and future, and miss what is present?
Who is your friend, partner, mother, father, brother, sister, when you see them without your story about who they are—without your story about what they believe or don’t believe, who and what they love or don’t love, what they’ve done and haven’t done, what they’ve said or haven’t said, how they’ve hurt you or praised you or ignored you—in the story of your life? What if you were to meet, here and now, beyond all of that carryover from the past? What if you were to meet them, here, for the first time, without expectation or disappointment or even hope? What if you were to meet the one who is actually here, rather than the one whom you imagine is here?
What would it mean to meet—really meet—without history, without projection, without imagination?
Now, I’m not for one moment suggesting that we get rid of our stories about each other; I’m not suggesting that we forget about the past, about the details of each other’s lives, our names, our roles, and so on. I’m suggesting that when we live solely in our stories of each other, we end up missing what’s actually here right now. In clinging tightly to my story of you; in holding tightly to memories, to prejudices, to my conditioned ideas of who you are; in viewing you as a separate character moving through time, I miss you as you are now, in this moment. I miss the one who is actually in front of me. I am so locked into a past image of you, into my ideas of who you are, into my expectations of you, into my disappointments and fears, that I don’t really see you as you are. I don’t really hear what you are saying right now. I value the past over your present-moment experience of the world. It’s as if I already know who you are, what you are going to say, what you are thinking, what you will do, what you believe, what you want, before you even open your mouth. I have literally prejudged your experience. All prejudice begins here.
The idea of our father-and-son relationship had actually gotten in the way of present-moment relating with the man in front of me. In holding up the story of our relationship, the story of father and son in space and time, we had stopped seeing each other in the here and now. In our relationship, we had stopped relating.
Beyond the story of “us,” beyond the dream, beyond all our images of each other—that is where true relating is really possible. Beyond the father story, the son story, the mother story, the daughter story, the husband story, the girlfriend story, the student story, the teacher story—that is where true intimacy lies. And the reality is, we always meet beyond the story. We always meet beyond the image. What I am, what you are, is the open space in which all images come and go. What I am, what you are, cannot be defined by any story. As consciousness, I am what you are, always. I am what you are, and that is unconditional love.
But when I relate to you not as a separate self, but as the wide-open space in which all thoughts, feelings, sensations arise and fall away—that’s where real intimacy is possible. We meet, without a history, open space to open space, and that’s the beginning of real relationship—not the relationship of one story to another story, not the meeting of two images, but the meeting of two open fields of being, open fields in which all thoughts, stories, feelings, sounds, sensations are deeply allowed to come and go. (And there aren’t really two open fields coming together, but this is useful language for the time being. Ultimately, no language can capture this intimacy. All language is only temporary, in this place beyond words. )
As a story trying to complete itself through you, seeking resolution through you, trying to come home through you, I will end up manipulating you, being dishonest with you, playing a role with you, hiding how I really feel out of fear of losing you, punishing you when I feel hurt by you. But as open space, I am free to communicate honestly and authentically with you, knowing that I am already the love I seek; knowing that I do not need you to complete me; knowing that, deep down, I cannot ever lose you. I do not need you in order to be fully who I am. I do not need you to keep my story together.
In recognizing myself as the open space in which all thoughts and feelings are allowed to come and go, and in recognizing that what I am is beyond “son” and that what I am doesn’t need “father” to complete it, I am free to engage honestly and authentically with the man in front of me. I can allow him to be fully himself, to express himself freely. I can encourage him to explore, to express his true thoughts and feelings, because finally I do not see his experience as a threat to my identity. Ultimately, even if he leaves me, it does not detract from my completeness.
It is the most loving thing in the world to say to someone, “I don’t need you. I love you, but I don’t need you.” In other words, “I don’t need you to complete me. I am complete without you. But I enjoy your company right now, and I love being around you. And if you were to leave, I would still be able to love you—even if there was pain or sadness in the experience of that.”
Real love asks nothing in return.
Just as we never really experience an outside world—a world outside of present experience, as we have seen—do we ever really experience other people as “out there”? When we relate to someone, who are we actually relating to? Are we simply relating to an image we have created of them, rather than to who they really are in the moment, here and now? Do we end up missing others as they are in this moment in our attempt to hold onto our own story of them, our own version of who they are? Do we always view others through the filters of history and future, and miss what is present?
Who is your friend, partner, mother, father, brother, sister, when you see them without your story about who they are—without your story about what they believe or don’t believe, who and what they love or don’t love, what they’ve done and haven’t done, what they’ve said or haven’t said, how they’ve hurt you or praised you or ignored you—in the story of your life? What if you were to meet, here and now, beyond all of that carryover from the past? What if you were to meet them, here, for the first time, without expectation or disappointment or even hope? What if you were to meet the one who is actually here, rather than the one whom you imagine is here?
What would it mean to meet—really meet—without history, without projection, without imagination?
Now, I’m not for one moment suggesting that we get rid of our stories about each other; I’m not suggesting that we forget about the past, about the details of each other’s lives, our names, our roles, and so on. I’m suggesting that when we live solely in our stories of each other, we end up missing what’s actually here right now. In clinging tightly to my story of you; in holding tightly to memories, to prejudices, to my conditioned ideas of who you are; in viewing you as a separate character moving through time, I miss you as you are now, in this moment. I miss the one who is actually in front of me. I am so locked into a past image of you, into my ideas of who you are, into my expectations of you, into my disappointments and fears, that I don’t really see you as you are. I don’t really hear what you are saying right now. I value the past over your present-moment experience of the world. It’s as if I already know who you are, what you are going to say, what you are thinking, what you will do, what you believe, what you want, before you even open your mouth. I have literally prejudged your experience. All prejudice begins here.
The idea of our father-and-son relationship had actually gotten in the way of present-moment relating with the man in front of me. In holding up the story of our relationship, the story of father and son in space and time, we had stopped seeing each other in the here and now. In our relationship, we had stopped relating.
Beyond the story of “us,” beyond the dream, beyond all our images of each other—that is where true relating is really possible. Beyond the father story, the son story, the mother story, the daughter story, the husband story, the girlfriend story, the student story, the teacher story—that is where true intimacy lies. And the reality is, we always meet beyond the story. We always meet beyond the image. What I am, what you are, is the open space in which all images come and go. What I am, what you are, cannot be defined by any story. As consciousness, I am what you are, always. I am what you are, and that is unconditional love.
But when I relate to you not as a separate self, but as the wide-open space in which all thoughts, feelings, sensations arise and fall away—that’s where real intimacy is possible. We meet, without a history, open space to open space, and that’s the beginning of real relationship—not the relationship of one story to another story, not the meeting of two images, but the meeting of two open fields of being, open fields in which all thoughts, stories, feelings, sounds, sensations are deeply allowed to come and go. (And there aren’t really two open fields coming together, but this is useful language for the time being. Ultimately, no language can capture this intimacy. All language is only temporary, in this place beyond words. )
As a story trying to complete itself through you, seeking resolution through you, trying to come home through you, I will end up manipulating you, being dishonest with you, playing a role with you, hiding how I really feel out of fear of losing you, punishing you when I feel hurt by you. But as open space, I am free to communicate honestly and authentically with you, knowing that I am already the love I seek; knowing that I do not need you to complete me; knowing that, deep down, I cannot ever lose you. I do not need you in order to be fully who I am. I do not need you to keep my story together.
In recognizing myself as the open space in which all thoughts and feelings are allowed to come and go, and in recognizing that what I am is beyond “son” and that what I am doesn’t need “father” to complete it, I am free to engage honestly and authentically with the man in front of me. I can allow him to be fully himself, to express himself freely. I can encourage him to explore, to express his true thoughts and feelings, because finally I do not see his experience as a threat to my identity. Ultimately, even if he leaves me, it does not detract from my completeness.
It is the most loving thing in the world to say to someone, “I don’t need you. I love you, but I don’t need you.” In other words, “I don’t need you to complete me. I am complete without you. But I enjoy your company right now, and I love being around you. And if you were to leave, I would still be able to love you—even if there was pain or sadness in the experience of that.”
Real love asks nothing in return.
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