The whole ever-recurring put-down (by those riding what might be called somewhat picturesquely "the OK Corral Carousel") by the Neti-Neti Advaita Knitting Society of any re-entry 'vehicles' into The Manifest, (once essential Nothingness has dissolved us, and we seek no more, and the light dawns that Nothing needs to be 'done' or 'undone' or 'understood' or 'realized'), begs at least one basic important consideration.
This consideration can be studied at almost mind-numbing length in the writings of Sri Aurobindo, who covers 'Her Descent' in "The Synthesis of Yoga," more directly in "Savitri" and to the point of intellectual pain in "The Life Divine." But however much these books may overdevelop the basic details, the fact remains that SOMEONE is manifesting. And She who manifests first is, of course naturally, Aditi, Parvati, The Divine Mother, The Blessed One, The Beloved, Kali, Isis, Ah-Unh. or whatever glorious name you wish to use to evoke the Mother Creator of Everwhere. I like to call her "Great-to-the-tenth-power Grandma Hattie," although I worry a little that it may seem disrespectful. But it does at least cover all eleven dimensions of Her Manifest-station.
Your Sedate Zerotudinesses can sit in a puddle of nothingness forever and wait until She comes along and changes your diapers. Or you can help Her out by wiping your own metaphorical ass, getting off and/or on it as you prefer ('Yee-haw!') and riding out to tilt at some of the very prominent windmills that are cropping up like poisonous toadstools everywhere.
There's nothing G10-Grandma Hattie loves more than a good adventure yarn with EVIL _almost_ winning out before all her little heros come riding over the ridge on their Mad Max steeds-of-preference (ass, donkey, caballo, Rocinante, various flavors of vehicles) as the Kosmic Calvary charge, to PEACE on all those slimy toadie types who think they're entitled to gobble up all the ________ (fill in the blank with your own goody-of-choice.) It's all Goddess-thirst anyway, so just fill-em-up with high-octane bliss out of your hose/sprinkler/soaker/light sword/asspergillum of choice until their bliss-tolerance capacitors pop their buttons like those temperature gauges they put in turkeys. Is little Georgie W. done yet (soak-soak)? He's getting sort of soggy and smiley, so put him down for a little nappy-wappy.
Ultimately, whatever -it -is that realizes its basic nothingness must remanifest again as SHE. Or at the very very least, 'on Her lap,' because everything we 'do' is what She does through us. This eliminates a lot of those 'rank' problems upon which even enlightened 'gurus' seem prone to waste their precious bodily fluids. It's not your fault, dearies, because pyramid (sic!) schemes are built into the species. But once G10-G'ma arrives, we're all automatically flat on our faces -- no discussion necessary because the bliss factor is so impressive that it just presses us to her bosom. Like a Big Mama mega-wipe-out hug! Pluff! Woof! Happiness! Joy! She's HERE!
As She once said so succinctly, "What go 'round, come 'round." And that includes your own hobby horse on the OK Corral's Carousel, Sweetums. And, joy, joy! There are enough brass rings to give everyone a free ride! So, "Mount up! Time's a-wastin' if you wanna be in at the final De-Now-Moment."