Meditation sometimes produces surprising insights. Today was no exception. Practice is a journey without a destination. I see that for many years I was climbing a ladder to reach enlightenment but the Self I was seeking was in a sack on my back and was with me all the while. But for years I do not realise. Each rung I touch I learn intimately and could retrace my steps. Even when the rungs are left behind I remember how they felt and what I learned from their touch. All the rungs seem important and are leading me to my goal. But I don’t need to climb the ladder, I never did, except that as I climb I get nearer to realising this, until one day I wonder in just the right way. I take the sack off my back and I look inside and find the Self that has always been there. I realise then that the journey was not necessary, and yet had I not climbed I would not have realised that the Self was always with me. I never was the climber, or the ladder, or the journey. Such is the strangeness of the practice.