The Craftsman


We have grown to be in love with our thoughts.  We have chained ourselves to our intellect, prostrate before it, and worship it as the ultimate.  We groom it like a show pony, display it like a precious gem, yet we rarely see the truth of this treasure.  It’s no treasure at all.

The intellect is not a sparkling diamond.  It’s nothing but a hammer and chisel.  It chips away at memories of experiences past and engraves them upon our reality as if they were a great testament to who we are.  But the intellect is only a tool busily engraving dreams upon dust; a tool of the mind.  It has no eyes to see the dreams and dust blown away on any errant breeze.  It’s too busy chiselling.

We have grown to love our emotions.  Not only to love them but to fear them as well.  Here we seek our thrills,  Leaping from the cliff of love in hopes our parachute will open, exploding in a rush of anger to feel the burning flames engulf us, weeping cool tears to the strains of music so sweet it almost drives us to madness we delight in the aliveness.  Swept up in the dance we seek reassurance that this is who we are.

But the emotions are not who we are.  Emotions are the little chips of stone that patter to the ground as the intellect chisels away, the ringing of the hammer on chisel.  They’re but the sounds of its labor.

When we put the chisel down the song of its work goes silent and a sudden and unexpected enquiry arises like the sun burning through a cloud:  “Who drives the hammer and holds the chisel?  Who hears its song and watches the chips fall?”

This is the moment you become the Craftsman.  The hammer, chisel and chaff are in your hands but they are not who you are.  They are merely the tools and by-products of the timeless observer endlessly creating its own reality.  This is the moment you realize you can put the tools down and rest.


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