There is something in you that does not need to be taught how to recognize.
Long before you learned language, long before your mind could form ideas, there was already this simple capacity:
the ability to know.
You open your eyes, and sight appears.
You touch the world, and sensation rises.
Thoughts come and go, and something notices them.
That quiet noticing—effortless, natural, always present—is what I call pure awareness.
Awareness is the ground on which every experience stands.
It is what allows you to know anything at all.
But it also does something subtle: it allows you to be known.
Because without awareness, even your own existence would be invisible to you.
Your presence would not register.
Your story, your memories, your identity, your history—none of it would appear unless awareness was already there, silently shining.
So when I say,
“The ability to know and be known is pure awareness,”
I mean this:
Awareness is the space that receives everything.
It is the mirror in which both the world and the one who claims the world are reflected.
It is the single capacity behind both sides of experience—the seer and the seen, the listener and the heard, the feeler and the felt.
Strip everything away—name, body, belief, fear—and what remains is this simple, undeniable fact:
You are aware.
And that awareness is the only reason anything can appear, including the one who thinks they are living the experience.
Pure awareness is not something you find.
It is what is left when you stop trying to be anything else.
