Am I looking through the windshield of my head as I drive through the tasks of my day — eating breakfast, talking on the phone, typing on the keyboard — or is my mind wandering elsewhere while my vessel cruises on autopilot?
Autopilot is sufficient to navigate through an aimless day. The consequences of “not-being” only become obvious when I set an aim. To that end, it is necessary place a hand on the steering-wheel of my intellectual center, another hand on the stick-shift of my moving-instinctive center, and a foot on the gas-pedal of my emotional center. To keep aim, it is necessary to maneuver my machine expertly; it is necessary to Be.
It is necessary to know the vessel I am driving intimately — my lower centers, my habits of inner considering, identification, and negative emotions. It is necessary to know how to harness these functions to my aim, or curb them so that they not deviate me. To Be, a comprehensive system of self-knowledge must unfold like a downward-expanding pyramid, and at the same time a lofty aim must hover overhead like an upward-expanding pyramid. I must be pushed from below and pulled from above, driven by the need to optimize my machine and drawn by the need to transcend it altogether. To Be — to look through the windshield of my head as I drive through the tasks of my day — these two pyramids must converge in a single point, in this present breath, in a state called I am.
When do you catch yourself cruising on autopilot? And what aim can you set that will force you to Be?