If I have made an error in the grand scheme of things sitting down this morning to write, how would I know? Would the writing be inevitably poorly conceived, or even if well conceived would the serving of it into the public domain bring opprobrium enough to manifest in me regret, or would the opprobrium be the desired results from a perspective my conscious mind does not occupy? Looking around the landscape of a lifetime of thinking about right action and what I am trying to do in this moment or in my life as a whole, remembering Krishna’s admonition to Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita that “unfathomable is the course of action,” I needn’t think that I can figure all of this out. What I do is what I do and life goes on. Or, if my Sunday school training is to persist, somewhere in the depth of my being or sometime back in the ancient moorings of human existence, the burden of which is still mine to carry, some crime has been committed against God and I must either earn my way back into God’s grace by good works and obedience to His law, or invite a special representative of God into my life bringing grace with him and asking only acknowledgement of my guilt in order to receive it.
Except that this scenario is not how it works in the decent of being into the dividing and subdividing planes of existence, where infinite possibilities urgently move along infinite tracks into the unknown to become what they are in ways that human consciousness can never know, human consciousness being only one track of those movements in the cosmic working out of things. And how far does the primordial urge that becomes us go in the separations from itself before the particulars lose their connection to each other and further extension of itself is no longer possible?
For the particulate urge of pure existence on its way to becoming us, long on its own and remote from the whole, did not know, had no basis of knowing itself as an event until it cracked up on the rocks of unworkability and had to find its way back from negation with the news that it, revealed by a crash landing that had no predictability built into it because the unknown of it was absolute until it was revealed, that it is this planet, this world, these beings, all the broken apart pieces of its substance. It had to be this way, everything broken, for knowledge of how far the falling apart of it can go can only be gained when it breaks on the rocks of negation. And now it is what it is, for what was not known of it is now known all the way to its end point. The way it is now for human beings is that it does not matter from the point of view of it whether or not it will put itself back together from this cracking apart. The becoming of what it is is complete in its negation. The rest is about us, the pieces. Something has crashed on the moon and we are the regolith of its impact. What is yet to be known is what regolith can do. Knowledge of what it is is the choice of regolith to know.