I had something all written up and then I remembered a poem that summarizes things pretty well for me that I'd like to share:
III Nagarjuna, Robert Bringhurst, "A Matter of Spirit: Recovery of the Sacred in Contemporary Canadian Poetry"
What is swollen like a ripe
fruit, hollow like a cave,
What you touch, hear, taste, see, smell
is the inner perfection of vision.
What reaches into our eyes and our ears
is what is, and that is the wordless, inaudible
song and the brooding, unmusical
speech of the world.
This too
is just one
more opinion
to move through.
What is is what lies
out of sight, thought and talking.
Open them. Open the three
fists clinging to the world.
Open this too.
All positions
are prisons.
No truth is true
No instruction is certain, no knowledge complete.
If I speak for the serpent, the serpent
may speak for the bird. My position
is that I have no position.
This too.
All fictions
are true,
all intentions
positions,
and all dispositions
are prisons;
this too.
What is has no essence.
What is interdependent and empty.
What is unsingle, undouble, unplural, unborn,
unenduring, unbearing, undying;
what is has no past and no future, no shape
and no nature, no being, no having been, going
to be or becoming, no wholeness and no
incompleteness, no fingers....
This too.
This too
is just one
more opinion.
Outside the perfection of light there is no
total darkness. What causes what is is the hunger
to be and keep being. What is is on loan
from what isn't and its reflection.
What is is on loan from what isn't and is
its disguise. There is no rock bottom.
No centre, no sides, no top and no bottom.
This too.
There are no literal statements.
There is no unmetaphorical language.
This too.
Emptiness is also empty.
Nothing is not nothing. Nothing
is, and is is nothing. All that is
is nothing, yet there is
no nothing there that we can cling to.
We are also then
the nothing,
and the nothing
is the hunger,
and the hunger
is the question
and the answer:
be pure wonder.