The Cup

“I love you so much.” The voice stands clear within my mind. It is a voice without sound, without words, and void of any imagery. And yet, its beauty overwhelms me. Tears stream down my face, let my vision blur for a moment. The cup in front of me has no particular form or shape. It’s a standard size coffee mug, blue with a tree printed on it, together with the words “Cornell Plantations”. There is nothing special about this cup. It holds no special meaning for me. Nobody special gave it to me. It just stood there on the shelf and I picked it at random to have a cup of tea.

“I love you so much.” This is an impossible exercise. For a writer not to find words to describe something is obviously the end of whatever it is he longs to write about. Ok, let me therefore make an attempt to try to describe it. There is a line in “A Course in Miracles”. It says something like this: “A cup can show you the meaning of the universe.” Having been an avid student of it for around 17 years, I have read this line more than once, of course. Obviously, the application of an idea brings with it a much deeper experience than its intellectual understanding. The outcome of this exercise, though, is a bit unexpected, to say the very least.

While I look at the cup, I am aware of several things at once. Actually, the better word for ‘things’ would be ‘layers’. I am aware of several layers of experiencing the cup within me. Each layer leads to the next and at the same time leads deeper and deeper towards the cup’s true meaning. The first layer sounds something like this: “I don’t care about this cup. It’s just a cup. What’s all the fuzz about? Just leave me alone and drink the tea. It’s a cup, for God’s sake. There’s nothing to even write about. You drink from it, you clean it, you put it back in the shelf. End of story.”

Beneath this obvious one I’m finding another layer though. Hidden initially and only recognizable after looking at and letting go (as much as possible) of the first one. I can barely hold it long enough in my mind to recognize what it is about. It is fear. I look at the cup and I am afraid of it. Ok, I probably shouldn’t read this out loud or let anyone else see this for that matter. I’m afraid of a cup. It’s not that I’m afraid it’s going to do something to me. Obviously it’s not going to suddenly lift up from the table and smash me over the head like a Japanese Kamikaze air plane. “Cup killed writer while he wrote about it.” It’s way more subtle. The fear is not of the cup, I realize. The fear is of its ultimate meaning.

While I write this, something about layers becomes clear to me. In any situation or with any object or even institutions of any kind, whenever there are several layers, each layer protects the next one which protects the next one until the core is reached, which is in turn the ultimate purpose for all the layers. If I’m cold, to protect myself I might wear long underpants which are overlaid by regular jogging pants which may be overlaid by a blanket which may be enveloped by the house I live in. The purpose is my warmth. I’m the core. Each layer protects the layer below and all layers protect the core. This applies to any defense mechanism as well. The more important the core is the more layers of defenses are implemented to protect it.

What the hell does all this have to do with the cup I’m staring at? I’m afraid of the cup. The fear is subtle but it’s there. There is a slight nod in my stomach. I want to just not look at it anymore or draw my attention back to the first layer of “it’s just a cup” but I let the fear stand, welcome it, go into it a little deeper, taste it, experience it and make it my own. And then, after a while, suddenly, from one moment to the next, the fear is gone, making way for something totally unexpected.

“I love you so much.”