In response to Mike’s post that maybe sentience does not re-emerge:
I don’t think that’s possible. I see two perspectives, either of which lead me to the same conclusion.
First, from a scientific viewpoint, add infinite time to the stirrings of the universe, and eventually some configuration involving sentience is certain to arise. Why am I sure? Because it already has, and we’re allowing infinite time for it to happen again.
From the Advaita perspective, the very nature of existence is awareness. Existence demands awareness. I AM is a statement of the awareness of existence. From nothingness arises the sense of existence–that is the fundamental movement. I see this argument as one that can be intuitively grasped, rather than proven.
What we are, as sentience, cannot be destroyed.
Let me share a thought experiment with you. I recommend you play with it yourself.
For simplicity’s sake, assume that our planet is the only planet in the universe with life on it.
Now imagine that all life on the planet is completely destroyed—nothing is left alive.
What happens to the universe?
Consider:
Nothing would be seen, since seeing happens only for living creatures with eyes and nervous systems.
Nothing would be heard, since sound is also a phenomenon of experience.
Nothing would be felt (as sensations)—not heat, cold, presence, or absence.
And time would have no duration, since duration is an experiential quality.
Whatever was left would be neither light nor dark; neither loud nor quiet; neither felt nor unfelt; and would “move” through the rest of existence instantly (without duration.)
What would happen next?
Sentience would re-emerge (seemingly instantly, even if billions of years later, future scientists determined it took hundreds of billions of years to do so.)
Simultaneously, form and time would come back into existence.
One conclusion: our universe requires an experiencer and will never be without one.
The other day, while lying on a bed getting an acupuncture treatment, an interesting experience happened to me. Without any obvious prompting, I began to imagine what dying must be like. Not death, but dying—the final moments.
What happened was a sense of fading attachment to the concerns that constitute my life. Everything that is day-to-day just lost its significance. It was very clear that there was no reason for things, or even relations, to have significance any longer, and I didn’t mind that they wouldn’t. The closest word I can give to the experience was “dissolving.” If I had to say what I was dissolving into, I would say peace and stillness.
In the midst of this dissolving, two questions showed up (really, two aspects of the same question), both of which seemed extraordinarily important:
• Did I live an honorable life?
• Did I contribute to others?
My life came down to these two questions. Nothing else. Not accomplishment, money, spiritual attainment, or anything else. Just these two questions.
The experience left me very clear about what I want to be able to answer in the end.