Every sensation is a perfect kind of knowing, every touch an emotional revelation. Whatever appears is reflecting ourselves to ourselves, but not in a way we could have imagined. Imagination is conditioned on the past, on reprocessed left-overs of the non-existent one, the fabricated one, but we are so much more than any mere construction project!
We are time, the time it takes for us to happen, for everything to reveal itself as us — the limitless source of all existence — the crazy dreaming Love God who is making all this stuff up, waving the light around just to see it rise and shine. If we wish to honor and praise this God, we only have to be ourselves — how easy is that?
In the blinding bliss of timelessness, we were happy just to be what we are — inexplicable — but we are also curious, and so we took the human chance, the chance of a lifetime, one life at a time. We became our own experiment, our own laboratory — mixing and matching strands of DNA that spiral around and land on the ground — the ground of existence, the basis of breath, of all breathing things, of all time pieces. What can we come up with next?
Well, we like to play, we like to have fun fun fun, and so we became our own playground too, in which we pretend to be separated from the whole of ourself, in order to enjoy the secrets of pleasure and pain, plus and minus, subject and object — all the madness of individual embodiment, and all the love and loss that goes with it. Yes, we hate it and love it simultaneously, because we are a paradox, a divine paradox that nobody has a proper name for, and the namelessness doesn’t matter anyway — really, who cares?
We heard a secret, a story whispered in our ear. This is the story. We are living it. We are the beginning, middle, and end of it. We are the teller and told of it. We were given this story as a gift, to try it out and have some fun with it. That is all — nothing special about it, no great mission to fulfill, just making memories, memories of playing in the body, as the body, even getting sick and dying, even seeming to go somewhere, perhaps from here to there, there where we always are, awake and aware.
It’s a good story, as stories go, with dramatic themes of loneliness and longing, and not knowing — especially not knowing — of forgetting and remembering, and then forgetting again. All good, all yes — to live in uncertainty for a change, to run and jump and fall down and cry, to feel the warm summer breeze on our skin, drying our tears, or to stand still in the chill of a snowy winter day, watch a single leaf drop from a tree in autumn or a bud begin to open in spring, to reach out and touch others that are not me, and feel such a heart-breaking love, even in this meatsack we are dragging around — how amazing!
Could the challenge be to make love happen here on earth in this too-tight, just right, human form? Yes, let’s make love! We make it best by being it. Just be it! When we return to spirit, to luminous unity consciousness, and spread like a glorious symphony throughout the universe, there will be no pain, no sickness, no death.
Still, there will also be no bodies separated as individual objects to roll and twist together through the night in a delicious fever pitch of passion. No tiny newborn babies to cuddle and smell. No proud moment when your child blows out the candle on their first birthday cake. This human experience is just that –a humble human experience. This is our time here, our strange beautiful gift. Why are we so quick to flee it, or to complicate it with greed, envy, hatred?
When we were apart from the body, we viewed all humans as a kind of hallucination, a virtual reality, a dream experience. They were objects separated into matter for the specific purpose of feeling different than anything else ever known. Fascinated, we wanted to exist for a moment, a life, as that, as something that was apparently separated and apart from other things.
We wanted to be off on our own — an object distinct from the bigness of All. That tiny precious human body waiting for us was an alluring experience to be had. In such desire, we were born. We hated it and we loved it simultaneously, because we are a paradox, a divine paradox. We are that God who does this, expanded to infinity, encompassing every possibility, even limitation, even sadness, even unlove. What a crazy dreamer, what a famous lover, what a perfectly compassionate one!