Knowing fully well that whatever dream you seem to be having, whatever life you seem to be living, you are only recreating the shadow of your dealings with light. You are nothing but the interpreter between your perception and the light.
I sit here. I see shadows.
I sit here. I hear words.
I hear the humming sound of electricity. If I close my eyes and hear deeper than my heart, I hear the high pitch noise that serves as a memory of that one moment after the fall.
It reminds me of what is waiting when the dream is over.
I sit here.
I see shadows.
I sit here.
I hear words.
I hear the humming sound of electricity. If I close my eyes and hear deeper than my heart, I hear the high pitch noise that serves as a memory of that one moment after the fall. It reminds me what is waiting when the dream is over.
I sit in resolute resignation, folding my hands, allowing the weight of my spine to be grabbed by the gravity of earth. I see the angel of non-compassionate-presence. I copy his visage. I become its mirror. I observe the moment as the moment observes me.
I stare back at the eyes of the void. I do not try to move. I do not try to escape. I do not attempt a resolution.
I observe the eyes of the void. My heart becomes full of love and gratitude for he who sacrifices himself—he who renounces any movement and any expression, surrendering to the will of the moment.
My heart fills with gratitude for what that being has been doing for all eternity. I copy him for just a moment. I take a breath for him, for he cannot. I feel the rushing of warm blood on my body, for he cannot feel the rhythm of his own heart. I allow the electricity to flow through me, burning my skin, for he cannot have the respite of death. I ease myself into the eternity of this moment.
I give myself for him. I remain in the here and now, no longer seeking to escape, no longer wanting, no longer searching.
I hear the words I speak.
The cycle is complete, for nothing is meant.
Nothing is sought.
Nothing is obtained.
I give up becoming.
I give myself to the moment.
There was once …
(Every being, every sentient being, somehow remembers it—buried deep, deep in the cells, in the code that directs our movements and direction. It is faint, like a whisper in the middle of the night, faint like the softness of the breeze that caresses the skin. There is the memory of this time that was, when there was no disturbance of the flow of the light, and just the empty wind stirred the surface of the dreaming. No experience was yet so deep and entrenched as to produce anything remotely close to suffering and pain)
There was once, if you remember, no sense of owning or belonging.
There was only the allowing, the floating, the surrendering into that nurturing something that enclosed our senses.
Place your hand on your chest. There is a presence there.
This presence, untouched by the things of the sons and daughters of Adam, is not the product of history.
Feel the space between heart and hand.
Feel your body within. And that which feels has no birth place, has no beginning, has no end. It witnesses all that unfolds before your eyes.
It’s dreaming your life.
It’s awake when you sleep.
It knows when you forget.
It loves without body.
It moves in the spaces between light and dark.
See it again. Do not let it escape. See again.
It always starts with a sense of confusion at a young age.
Imprints begin to happen when whose who were around you, the adults, started to act around you as if they knew what they were doing.
If you doubt this just look at yourself around children. How you pretend to know what’s going on around them. When you and I both know that we are just as baffled by the mystery which surrounds us.
There is a word to guide our actions in the years to come: SOLIDARITY.
Always stand up for the oppressed, no matter who they are.
Always speak up against all injustice.
Always promote a world you want to live in.
Stand up in solidarity with the oppressed.
There emerged out of the rain drains of Zacamil and San Antonio the muchachos, the guerrilla fighters fighting against a right wing military dictatorship, in a last thrust attempting to secure a victory for the people. Tania emerged with them, a communications radio on her back and a rifle in her arms.
Unlikely soldier, she lived with love and laughter in her heart, peaceful and gentle. Yet her gentle, loving soul was infused with an indomitable sense of justice, of heroic ferocity that compelled her to “do something” and to “be active” in the cause of historical change. She died shortly after like many other. A bullet in her head and one in her leg, along with scrapes and abrasions on her legs, suggested a capture, the dragging across the asphalt, and the execution on her knees. It is useless to wonder what her last thoughts were, how she died, and what she did in the last hours of her life; but everyone who knew her believes that she died as she lived, valiantly and heroically. The only thing
I know is what happened three months before she died, the last time I saw her.
It was the first time I could come back to El Salvador after my exile. For the first time since 1985 I was able to travel, no longer constrained by my asylum. A big empty gulf in my heart was being filled up with the green, the heat, the songs of birds, and the hugs of my loving friends and family. But when I went looking for Tania she wasn’t there. She was gone, underground. A university activist, her partner had been captured and disappeared. He didn’t show up to his rendezvous with Tania. She knew her days were counted, that she was now marked. One of those synchronicities that the hand of God writes when developing our destinies put Rodney, Tania’s brother and another of my close friends, back from Germany on his first visit back to El Salvador. He brought me to Tania, to the security house where she hid before going for training in the jungle. We talked a talk worth decades in three hours. We both seemed to know this was our last visit, that she would not survive. There was a moment, silent and pregnant with dreaded knowing, when we looked into the truth of that meeting. I proposed that we promised to meet again in a year, grasping for hope that a promise would turn the tide. This is when this picture was taken, just at that moment, and the Angel of Death to her left blessed her impending passage.
Three months later I got the news. Her memory flooded my waking moments. I remember the first time I saw her, we were both 13. We had both just arrived at Ciudad Satelite, a new urban development for middle class families. She was the eldest of her family, always guiding and defending those weaker than her. Competitive, she challenged me to a race and we arrived together. I ran as fast as I could, and so did she. We remained friends since then. We then sat down to talk about everything and nothing, and she told me then of a fantasy where she is in an accident, unable to move her legs, and with this challenge she would apply the force of her will power and attempt to walk; mind over matter, she felt the force of her Will and imagined a way to move, to go, to do against the heavy forces of dead matter. I couldn’t help to think of this daydream of hers, to conquer matter, to overcome the weight of nature, and to awaken her will. Now, she is dead, and one year later—nine months after she was killed—I saw her in my dream. We walked and we talked. She told me she was still trying to come through, to be, to do, to fulfill. I told her what had happened, and guided her into the clear light of the Sun Absolute, her true nature.
Since then, her name has inspired many. Aside from everyone she touched with her compassion, courage and truth, Tania’s life has inspired non-profit organisms, legislative and advocacy efforts for women, and even the minister of education of El Salvador declared her debt of gratitude to her.
Tania, I see your will and force, eternal friend, trying from the center of your will to move and do even through the minor inconvenience of death. I can say that you are lodged not only in my memory, but also in the very foundation of what I love and value, of that which is the essence of my actions. Your valor impregnated my blood as much as your laughter has marked all my joys.
This is the thing: If you’re not thirsty, you won’t find the appeal for water. The satisfaction of drinking water is not inherent to the water. It comes from the experience of eliminating the thirst.
The Great Work makes no sense if your soul is not thirsty for it. The thirst for the waters of the spirit is a necessary condition for the satisfying taste of the dew of infinity.