Sitting

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.

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Meditation

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 Give Myself to this Moment

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 sit.

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 sit.
I breathe.
I hear the words I speak.
The cycle is complete, for nothing is meant.
Nothing is sought.
Nothing is obtained.
I sit.
I am.
I give up becoming.

I give myself to the moment.

The Inescapable Waking State

And once again I close my eyes knowing that I can never escape this moment—the eternal moment in which I am one with everything.

I immerse myself into the dream once again, making it more and more complex, creating a play of light and shadow, making it ever more complex, setting traps and dangerous ambushes.

Forming a complex maze and labyrinth to get lost,
to find myself, to lose the key to my real self…
to lose the key once again.

To forget who and what I am.
Whispering secrets into one part of me,
forgetting the secrets with another part of me.

Dividing the language so that some masks of me say yes and others say no. Divide the self. Forget again. Just so I can sleep and forget the inescapable truth of the real, of the here and now, of the waking state.

 

 

The Dancer in the Perpetual Flame

(a brief message for Karin, r.i.p.)

This universe is created and destroyed in the blink of an I.

Destroyer, Creator and Maintainer, locked in a crazy, eternal dance––dancing as the flame of fire in the center of any room. The flame creates itself, at the same time that it consumes itself.

In the center of the flame, you can see the dancer, creating and destroying; and through the dance, maintaining the flame. And so, a universe is created and destroyed, and everything is perennially fresh and new.

The Absolute, the one true being, is there free, without pain and suffering, perpetually dancing away. No conflict. No drama. No karma. No lingering pains. Just the flow of the immeasurable. No division between good or bad, right or wrong. No high and low. It’s all just the harmonious circle of the eternal dance.

 

Photography by Sharla Sanchez

Awakening is the Ultimate Heresy

This brain of yours is, right now, creating the world. It is, at the same time, forming scientific hypotheses about the universe. It is doing this not only at the social level, but also at the natural and even the spiritual level.

The process of awakening has to do with taking these processes of the brain and bring them to a conscious level. It is about becoming conscious of the assumptions that you are making when you are defining yourself, and the assumptions that you are making when you are face to face with the infinite.

The brain is doing all this in a mater that is unconscious to you. Automatic. Make them conscious, and voluntary.

Your family, your tribe, takes care of giving you the assumptions, the foundations, and principles that let you navigate the world.

Eventually, society takes over and provides you with the stories, the narratives, that allow you to know what group to identify with, what beliefs to hold, how to behave with other people, and how to behave when you are alone.

Then, religion takes over to tell you how to think about god, and how to behave in the face of the infinite

The Great Work is, in a way, a work of heresy where you begin to discard what religion tells you.

You begin to set aside all the identities and assumptions that the social group has given you: all the identifications with a race, a nation, a religion. All identifications with a human group being to be set aside as programs that have invaded your system. A lot of these programs have kept you trapped in a form that is limited, and are not your real self.

Even the way that we perceive nature has to be questioned, analyzed, and reformed in a conscious manner, so that what we are, what the world is, and what the universe is can be approached as a great mystery—as a unique path that will lead us to a lifelong adventure of discovery. To know thyself, as the oracle of Delphi commanded, and as socrates told his students, is not only to know your identity—with all its preferences and histories—but to know that you are not that at all. It is to know the limits you have imposed on yourself. To know that manner in which you were educated by family, culture, country, and religion; and how they have provided limits for yourself, because they has created an avatar that functions on behalf of those religions, countries, and artificial human groups.

This great work is an ultimate act of rebellion where you dare to stand alone, to disrobe yourself of all your programs and all your identities, and to face the empty void only as a silent presence. Then you can look at everything again, from this perspective, and pick and choose your experiences, your hypothesis, your assumptions. Pick them consciously, and they’ll go from being unconscious assumptions to being tools for you to use; as a carpenter uses and chooses a hammer, a saw, a nail.

Ultimately, there is beyond the center of centers, there, at the origin of your attention, beyond the sense of self, the origin of all you are. This is the God that creates the world that you perceive. This is the God that sustains the life of the one that says ”I Am”. This god within has been considered the greatest of heresies of all the religions that have made a world of worship, the have created a culture that sees them, and only them, as the true intermediaries between you and god. Their success, strength and wealth has depended on you believing that you are not god; that you are only a limited ego that is a suffering fool whose only possibility of happiness depends on the graces of an external, remote god, and whose only intermediary is the church.

In this unholy trinity, a tyranny of a remote father and a tyrannical mother, are placed the only source of redemption for a child that never grows. But the truth is that the Holy Father is you, not your ego, not your identity, not even your memories, but you—the one behind the curtains of perception. You are the true God, and this vessel of flesh and mind that contains the history of humanity, that contains all knowledge and experiences, that contains the good and the bad, that contains all the teachings, and all the words of all the masters is the true church.

The marriage between God and the church produces, outside of you, the kingdom of heaven—always new, always created, always reflecting the will of god. In this Kingdom outside, the world created anew, is a true reflection of the inner marriage between the true God and the true church. This union is the true wine of ecstasy that brings the satiation of our deepest aspirations. Those who would keep humanity enslaved will tell you that it is a great heresy to believe in this God within. And I tell you that you have nothing to believe. No belief is necessary. You have to approach this as a true scientist, a true explorer of the inner spaces, and seek for yourself the knowledge of your true essence, of that which is silence and infinite, of that which is true beyond all forms, beyond all time—the center of yourself.

Seek within your heart, not the emotional or physical heart, but the center of yourself. There, you will find it. Silent. Vastly infinitesimal. All knower. Creator. Maintainer. Destroyer of all worlds. Look for the god within. Commit the ultimate heresy, and make contact with your true self.

http://toltecsurvivor.libsyn.com/the-great-work-is-the-ultimate-heresy

 

 

 

 

How body and mind become dull

How is it that the ancient and profound intelligence of the body become dull and inefficient? It is by the restrictions created by the mind conditioned by culture, religion, and education that we obscure the fluid intelligence of this organism that has kept us alive and evolving for millions of years.

The knowledge that we develop about the body is always separate from the intrinsic knowledge the body has.

They are both useful. Science has been teaching us a lot, but the body always possesses an intelligence that is older than the intelligence of the discursive mind. The problem is not that we don’t know. The problem is that we kill the intelligence of the body. We teach the body how to be insensitive. Then, we teach the mind how to be dull.

We make the body insensitive by regulations, restrictions and habits. We teach the mind to be dull with unconscious language, morality and religion.

What most people do out of love for their children, for their education and their moral standards, is what is stunting the sensitivity of the brain. After a while we cannot really think, investigate or observe. We only see what everyone sees. We only think what everyone thinks.

We learn to feel little: only that which has a name and only that which society permits. By that time we’re already slaves to this system.

 

I Woke Up Lightning on the Other Side of the Mirror

I remember my mother walking all around the house, in a hurry. She was carrying a bundle of blankets and towels. Outside, the rain was hitting the rooftop and streets hard. The noise of the rain is harder in the tropics. The cloud forests of El Salvador makes condensation of water stronger, producing thicker drops and more abundant rain falls. Against the symphonic canon of tropical rain, the dissonant thunder would strike to the core, evoking a primal fear that left at its wake religious women crossing their chests and clutching rosary beads.

For some of us, the flash of lightning that traveled like rivers of light through the night sky did more than evoke fear. It announced the shattering sunder of the ordinary. This night, like so many tropical nights outpouring water, light and stentor, I sat in the living room watching my mother going to all the mirrors in the house, covering them with cloth, to keep us safe. She was convinced that mirrors had the power to attract lightning. It was a simple and obvious matter of sympathetic magic: the reflection of lightning has the same properties as the emanation from a lightning bolt, and so the destructive power of one could be felt in the mirror. Transitive properties clearly applied.

I just sat there and watched the family dance. My mother covering mirrors, and the rest either securing all windows, doors, and leaks against the invasion of water, or unplugging electrical cables to protect us against the invasion of electrical surges. And so, protected against water, light, and magic, the night went on. The supernatural fear and awe, however, seemed unaffected by any barrier. As used as we were to tropical storms, we had not yet become rational enough to disregard the raw power of the gods of nature. The power of light and thunder still managed to reach us, even through all the protective barriers of glass windows, towels and rosary beads. Each thunder still made our core tremble, and something that had listened to the storm since before civilization, and reason, seemed to awaken little by little with each tremor.

Each lightning and thunder, a soul-quake.

That night, I overheard my sister tell my brother that she had heard from mama Juana that if you look at yourself in a mirror for too long, you will go insane. Was this the maddening power my mom was keeping at bay? Would a primordial spirit from the abyss awaken if the lightning struck? Would it also awake after being watched for too long?

I must have already had been mad. Why else would I do what I did? With the heart girthed tight by a panic fear, like a serpent around its pray, I slipped unnoticed to a remote room, one of the ones my mother had already protected with towels in the mirror. I told myself, I really did, out loud, that this was crazy and to go back to the safety of the blankets and the stories of the family. But I didn’t.

I went into the room, and opened the veil between me and my image. Removing the white blanket covering it, I saw myself. I stared into my image. I stayed there beyond the fluttering of heart and the crawling of skin. I stayed there, watching attentively, after I recognized the one looking back. After I saw the changes of the face, the demons and angels peeking back at me, I stared longer. I even stayed there after I clearly felt that I was the one behind the mirror staring out into a world of light and thunder, tearing apart all forms and worlds.

I felt as if I had just woken up from a long, long dream in which I had been many, many beings: man, woman, criminal, judge; where I had been a saint and a sinner.
A fish.
I had seen myself as daughter and mother.
Lover.
I was the betraying one and the one who cried in desperation, betrayed.
I had had many dreams and I had seen myself lost in all those dreams.
I got lost in all those worlds. Using myself in the dream. Identifying with the drama.

I remember myself collecting pieces of me, calling them my companions. Members of a group that searched for an idea, an illusion called reality. Futile enterprise. For nothing in that dream could be called reality.

There is only this room.
Only this mirror.
Only me and no other.

I am where I have always been and there is nothing else.
I have always remained in the here and now, even throughout all those changes of form and vision. Immersing myself into the hellish vistas of pain and unending suffering with the hope of forgetting the real world. Searching for heavenly spheres of life and peace and happiness; eternal happiness. Only…

Only to briefly be able to forget the stark reality of the here and now.
That here I was again, all alone.
Nowhere to go in this room called Reality.

 

Electrocuted and immensely alive.

I was once electrocuted as a teenager.

It’s hard to tell what got me to that space. I was in the 8th grade, impatient to be of service to the revolution. If I only I were in another school, I could have joined one of the youth groups dedicated to organize teenagers to promote the cause, and to provide conscientization tools. If I had gone to a less privileged school, I could have been interacting more with the revolutionary youth. I could have been in rallies and meetings. I could have been on street demonstrations, and eventually help with the barricades, with the taking of radio stations, with the publishing of clandestine newspapers. I could have been helping the revolution, until it was time for me, too, to take up arms and help change the brutal regime of death and injustice.

But the Externado de San Jose had no such groups. What we had was an advanced academic program, mixed with the Jesuit mandate to create citizens with a social conscience and a spirit of service to others. We had the dedicated priests who tried hard to teach that Catholic theology was synonymous with social justice. We also had many teachers who were university students and, therefore, quite in touch with the times, with the revolutionary fervor and the need to produce a new human being who lived by rules different than the repressive and oppressive exploitation that history had given us. Of course, we also had very smart students, many of whom were from the richest families of El Salvador, families that were exactly what the repressive and oppressive exploitation salvadorean history had given us.

There were no youth groups in the Externado. No organized resistance. That was for the poor schools, the Instituto, the public schools, and the National University (the U, we called it). What I had in the Externado that connected me to the revolution were the books, the papers, and the discussions with other students and teachers. I had managed to write a play and organize a mural; it was a periodical with political cartoons, editorials, news, and social analysis that was not distributed, but rather pinned inside a glass frame on the wall of one of the hallways of our old building. Students and teachers could read it, stoping on their way to class or office hours. I got two friends to help, and collected articles and opinion pieces from other interested students. I wrote the editorial piece and drew the cartoon. We called it El Pulgarcito, after the story of a Thumbelina sized boy, the size of a thumb (pulgar). It was also the nickname of my country, the smallest of the continent, and one of the most insignificant in the world.

I was impatient for more, though. I wanted to participate and help in the larger process happening outside. There was a revolutionary movement touching every aspect of life: peasants, workers, students, teachers, priests, women, youth, farmers, and artists were all organizing. The movement was social, devotional, political, and armed as well. The people were insurrecting at all levels, and from all sectors there was a clamor for change and social justice. I wanted in. I wanted to serve. So, I talked to my father. He was connected and involved. I told him I had something to ask, that it was serious. We went to the back patio of the house, under the terrace. He sat with me and listened attentively, nodded pensively when I told him I wanted to join the movement. He asked me to wait a little, that he was going to connect me with the right people.

I was too impatient, though. Life was flowing strong and fast, and I didn’t want to stay in place while it all happened outside. I didn’t want to stay frozen in privilege while the land was being covered with revolutionary currents.

I went by myself to the National University. I’d heard that many revolutionary organizations met there in secret. I had explored the grounds before, at a time when the campus had been closed by the military, and the rooms and projects had been all abandoned to entropy and jungle. Now, it was teeming with activity. Men and women walking all over, with books and stethoscopes, beards and glasses. I walked guided by instinct. In that ocean of university students and professors, I saw my older brother walking towards me. We saw each other at the same time. Each surprised to see the other, because he didn’t go that university either. He was a senior in high school, but here he was with two friends I’ve never seen. We greeted each other, almost imperceptibly. “What are you doing here?”, he asked. “Just passing through, visiting friends,” I said. “What are you doing here?”, I asked. “Same,” he responded. “Just passing through.” Neither pushed the matter any further. We both knew. We silently agreed to pretend.

If found what I was looking for. It was a shack behind a mound of earth covered with overgrowth. There were four doors to the long shack, each one leading to a different student organization. They were not university groups. They were part of the high school and junior high student organizations. They met here, hidden from the authorities and spies in their own schools. This was a central hub where a youth organization could coordinate activities across many different schools. I didn’t hesitate, I knew where to go. It was not the largest and most popular MERS. I was instantly attracted to the student branch of the PRTC. There was no reason I could give for this. It was a knowing that came from having seen my life a few times in the past. I simply had seen myself walking through this door before. So, when the door was there in front of my, I walked in.

At the same time, in what seems like a different world, I was also following a mystical path. It was the 8th grade and my soul wanted a lot more than masses and confessions. I needed to experience in my own flesh that spirit and awakening others were content to read about. I wasn’t satisfied with the promise of heaven, nor was I scared of hell. Traditional religions no longer had an appeal to me, and the material world was not enough. I went on my own, to study and practice. In the 8th grade, I was studying western esotericism, hypnosis, parapsychology, and magick.

The spiritual fires were fanned within me. I couldn’t just remain placid and settled in the occurrences of life. I couldn’t follow the reasonable program: be a good student of a good school, choose a profession, get a family, make a living, follow a religion, and train good children to be good citizens.

I yearned for liberation, both in the historical world outside and in the innermost sanctum of the soul. The revolutionary fires were fanned outside and inside. Liberation and evolution were stirring the depths of my soul.

The many worlds I had to inhabit were for the most part kept from colliding, but one day they all seemed to lead to this specific moment, when the chamber where I was became solid, when I didn’t know how I had been caught in this current of time. I wasn’t sure what lead to this, but I was here now, being electrocuted. There was a minute instant, when the current begun to flow through me that I remembered having taking a misstep. I remembered this moment, right when the current is about to flow and trap me there, when I know I was free and flowing but now I am falling into an oh-so-solid reality of matter and life. I knew that this moment before the electro-magnetic current overflows my nervous system, was the exact same moment I experienced before I was born, before my essential self was fused with my human nervous system and life as an individual begun in this planet, in this particular historical moment in this particular country. I had been here before, and here I was again, and again. Sometimes I was experiencing this before reincarnating, sometimes with my hands extended as the Man in the Cross while high voltage is passed through by someone or something behind me I cannot see, attempting here to freeze hope, stop the flow of life, stunt liberty, and crush the seeds of love. But there was nothing I could do now to avoid being trapped in this current of bioelectricity, nothing to do to escape. The only option now was to ride out these currents of light and life.

When electricity begins to flow through the waters of my brain, everything else freezes. Every nerve in this body was created to conduct electricity, to conduct subtle currents of magnetic and psychic energy, to carry information from one part of the body to another.

This nervous system that was created with very subtle wires––with very small and delicate rivers of energy and light, was designed to carry through it the most beautiful impressions of light, depth, sound, touch; the loving caress of the Beloved; the brutal gentleness of the sunset; the wind coming down from the volcano; the smell of spring in a tropical land.

This nervous system, designed to carry beauty and pain is, in this moment of electrocution, only able to carry high voltage, freezing everything in place, not allowing a single thought to be transmitted to the body; not admitting even the movement of lips and tongue to ask for help. There is just the freezing energy, and the movement––the swaying back and forth of a body that is being cooked alive, immensely alive.