I am not a fundamentalist.
I do not confuse the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself (Zen Buddhist Koan). I do not believe that I can pour the sea into a bottle (St. Augustine), imprison reality in a word and to read the word as if it suddenly descended from vacuum.
I do not pride myself on being one of “the chosen” who “know” and “can”. On the contrary, I prefer authenticity to the rigid pathos of poses; light to dusk; the ground under my feet to a flight in a borrowed balloon.
Maybe because I fear schizophrenia – a theatrical performance in the “dharma hall” in the day and a grey make-up removal at night.
But maybe I am just (slightly more) honest.
I am not a “něcista” [from Czech “něco” meaning “something”] (Tomáš Halík) believing there must be “something up there”, but not bothering much to look that “direction”. The one satisfied perhaps with a boding – an anticipation of something greater (semper maior) beyond the borders of the ordinary. But I will not manage with the crepe paper of phrases, packaging that sells in a supermarket.
For I know that “there is something inside you”.
Although I cannot grab it, seize it as a thing – to use it, entertain myself and throw it away; I cannot ignore it, because it insistently clamours for my attention. In times of crisis in particular, when the sophisticated construction of everydayness is collapsing like a house of cards – the earth is shaking, the whirlwind is raising and the tempest is raging.
I cannot act as if it was not there – something waiting for its unveiling – beyond the ballast of poses and phrases – spirituality as an essential dimension of human being, as a component of personality.