Let us use the example of pizza to understand supreme enlightenment or awakening. None of us sees the whole pizza or another's slice; we see only the piece on our own plate. Without knowing what toppings lie on another's slice or how large it is, we begin to feel that the piece before us is the finest.
This is where the first delusion arises. The thought comes that my conception, my experience alone is real, that others' are inferior—yet in true awakening, there is no room for such comparison.
Why is this so? Real awakening is not an opinion, not even a notion. It is direct experience. And whoever truly attains that experience, regardless of the religion, culture, or language in which they speak—in all descriptions of the experience, there is harmony found, because truth is singular.
There is another kind of delusion, born from the manner of speaking itself.
When it is said, "Looking only at your own plate, you cannot see the whole pizza," what is really meant is all the events and facts of the world. This is a relative perspective.
Indeed—humans cannot fully know all events, every small matter. But if pizza is taken as a metaphor for complete awakening, then seeing the whole pizza becomes possible. Then awakening means seeing the entire truth. This is no longer a slice; this is the complete experience. For this, one must return to the beginning—look toward the whole, unbroken pizza, not the slices.
Awakening means finding union with God, or by whatever name one calls it—becoming one with that supreme consciousness. Then the deep causality working behind all things becomes clear.
But here another problem emerges—ego. If someone speaks from ego—"I know everything, I am supreme"—that sounds like arrogance. But if it comes from true experience, then it is merely a report, wherein there is no "I," only experience.
Human thought and reason always say—"Everything must be explained, everything can be understood." But the truth is—in the earthly world, many things remain unresolved. Here, it is not possible to know everything.
But in the spiritual realm, reason or analysis does not operate. There, knowledge is absolutely complete and perfect. Otherwise, it is not enlightenment.
From one perspective, truth is—humans cannot understand everything (relative truth).
From another perspective, truth is—in awakening, everything is grasped together (supreme truth).
That is—reality is one; but there are two ways of understanding it—one limited, the other infinite.
Since you do not know what another's slice is like, it is best to offer an opinion only of your own; with even minimal wisdom, do not venture into comparison.
# A Slice of Pizza The other day, a friend asked me: "What makes you happy?" I thought for a moment and said, "A slice of pizza." He laughed. "That's it? Just pizza?" "Yes," I said. "Just pizza." He pressed further, as friends do when they sense there's something beneath the surface. "But surely there's more to it than that? A slice of pizza is such a small thing." I understood what he meant. In our age of grand ambitions and towering aspirations, we are taught that happiness must be equally grand—a measure of success, a monument to our efforts, a conquest of some kind. Happiness, we're told, comes from achieving the extraordinary. We must reach the summit. We must leave our mark. We must become somebody. But sitting there with my pizza, I felt something shift in me. Here was something warm, something that nourished. Here was simplicity in an age of complexity. Here was a moment—just a moment—where nothing was demanded of me except to taste, to be present, to exist without purpose. A slice of pizza, you see, contains within it a kind of wisdom we have forgotten. It asks nothing of you. It does not require you to be better than you are. It does not whisper that you are not enough. It simply offers itself—its warmth, its flavors, the small pleasure of salt and sweetness and substance. In a world that constantly measures and judges, pizza is democratic. It belongs to everyone equally. The rich and the poor sit at the same table, and the pizza tastes the same. This is not nihilism. I am not saying that ambition is pointless, that striving is useless. But perhaps—just perhaps—we have forgotten something fundamental. We have forgotten that happiness is not only at the summit, but in the climb. It is not only in the arrival, but in the journey. And most radically, it is not only in the great things, but in the small ones. My friend looked at me strangely after I said all this. He thought I was being philosophical about pizza, turning something mundane into something profound. Perhaps I was. But I prefer to think of it differently: perhaps pizza is not mundane at all. Perhaps the mundane is only what we have failed to see clearly. When you bite into a slice of pizza, you enter into a conversation with the baker, the farmer who grew the wheat, the tomatoes ripening in the sun, the hands that kneaded and shaped and baked. You are connected to the earth, to labor, to care. You are, in that moment, part of a vast network of human effort and natural bounty. You are held, without knowing it, in the arms of the world. This is what my slice of pizza taught me. So when people ask me what makes me happy, I still say: a slice of pizza. And when they laugh or press for more, I smile, because I know something they have not yet learned. I know that the gateway to joy is sometimes the simplest door. I know that happiness does not announce itself with trumpets. It comes quietly, warmly, in the shape of something as ordinary as bread and cheese and tomato sauce. It comes, and asks only that we be present enough to taste it.
Share this article