When I Can No Longer Remember

What is this, penetrating me over and over again?

What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?

Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.

More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.

This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.

 

There’s Only a Continuum of Sentience Between You and the Universe.

Picture yourself in the middle of a sentient universe, a conscious being who reaches within because there is nothing outside. It reaches within. It folds upon itself, exploring different levels of sentience until energy is manifested and matter is formed. I want you to picture that as a process of folding upon itself and unfolding out into experience.

This sentience is going within to know itself. It is perceiving itself on different levels, as pure intelligence, then as sound, and then as light. After becoming light, this supreme being experiences itself as cosmos, as galaxies, and finally as planetary existence.

It is not that it is creating sound and then it creates light, and then it creates stars, and then it creates planets, and then it creates things. It’s more that every layer is itself and it has a continuous unfolding of consciousness—knowing itself at different levels.

To give an example of how this is a continuum you may consider the nature of matter itself. Everything that we call matter is composed of atomic particles, and each atom is composed of subatomic particles, electrons, protons, neutrons, etc. Each one of these particles is a packet of energy, a vibration that exists for a time. The relationship between these particles is what creates what we know as the material world.

From the moment when there is light in the Universe, this same light has been coming together as vibration creating stars, creating galaxies, creating planets, creating moons, people, plants, animals, rocks and everything. There is no substantial difference between matter and energy. It is all a continuum. Matter is slowed down energy. The only distinction between matter and energy is in our conception of it, how we relate to it, how we think of it, but it is all part of the same continuum.

In that same way, there is no real difference between the mind of God and the physical universe. It is all a continuum of sentience.

The Shape of the Earth Across Time

For some reason I keep getting this question online: “The Earth, is it a globe or flat?”

I have decided to compile a list of answers from some of the most renowned religious, spiritual, philosophical, and artistic minds I have encountered in my explorations…

Most people after the industrial revolution: a globe.

The Holy Inquisition: Flat.

Modern Science: a misshapen sphere, like a deflated globe.

Salvador Dali: a field of the misshapen faces of time.

Hinduism: an illusion.

Enochian Angels: A cube.

Homer: a neutral valley below Olympus and above Hades created to be the playground of the gods.

Einstein: a gravitational well in a space/time continuum.

Mayans: a space/time spiral.

Ramakrishna: the unfolding of perception of the real you, who is God.

Hippies: a global village to live in peace and make love.

Globalists: a global village to exploit and consume.

Nazis: a hollow concave globe sustaining humans upside down on its inner surface.

Gurdjieff: the Mi lower harmonic of the initial tone of the world of the Absolute.

Toltec: Flat, but it’s not the Earth that is flat. Earth is a globe projected on a flat screen of light in infinite extension that make up the boundaries of our consciousness, which in turn is shaped as an egg.

All these answers have some truth to them, some more than others, and all in accordance to the paradigm used to tell their stories. All, that is, except for the inquisition and the nazis. They were useless and false, then and now.

The Stars Firing Synaptic Dreams of God

Every atom in your body was forged in the bowels of a star, and everything you can perceive in this universe was also formed in a star. If this universe is an illusion, then the stars are the synaptic firings creating the building blocks of the dream of God.

Now, consider the situation before the first stars erupted with light in the night sky. The universe had never seen light, and yet all the matter that was possible was already there. In fact, most of the matter that had been created before the first stars came out was already gone.

What we’re experiencing right now is not the bounty of creation. We are on the last leg of creation. Most of the material content of the universe was already gone by the time the first stars were created. And when the first stars were created there were no planets, no life. There was just that initial light filling up the universe, and those giant stars remaining after the initial splendor.

These stars lived their lives for billions of years and one of two things would happen. Either they would contract enough until they became black holes or they would explode becoming super novas.

The ones that became super novas would give themselves to the universe, sending off everything that had been forged in their bowels and all this matter then would come to join other star systems, reaching the type of matter in these other stars. This new matter would then again form new stars and create the second generation of stars.

The new stars would again either become black holes or supernovas and then they would give rise to more complex molecules and form new stars and new types of planets until we come to this sun that we have.

Our sun is part of the fourth generation of suns. All so that we may have a very rich variety of molecular structures in order to have the complexity of planetary existence that we experience here and now.

It is with this type of planetary existence that we can form different bodies; bodies capable of sustaining life; bodies capable of carrying the type of consciousness that sentient beings have. So, we have gone through all this trouble just to form this kind of body that can carry the sentience of the universe.

Sharing my Inner Space/ 32 years of Art (a book review)

I have read Martivón Galindo’s Sharing My Inner Space, and I realize now that with every painting and every poem she has been marking a special space in the journey that so many of us undertook back in the 80’s, when the Salvadoran diaspora uprooted us from the place where we wanted to live, love, die, and create. We left because we had to, away from decades of war and oppression, and everywhere we went we kept looking hard inside the most recondite corners of the heart for that something we brought with us, to make a life and create art, and to find ourselves even in places that forever made us feel strangers.

In this book, Martivón gifts us with a tremendous experience through the use of poetry, print, and painting. It is a powerful storm that penetrates your consciousness under the command of an accomplished artist who has dived into the depths of her soul, and confronting the turbulent history of war, exile, emerges in ultimate triumph a master of her perceptions. She takes us through her encounter with exile, an event that shaped an entire generation of Salvadorans, but she does more than make us look at the world, she takes us with her as the seed of her soul emerges from that encounter triumphant, and continues to create and define her artistic world.

Martivón is not content with showing us her skill and creativity. She shares with us that most intimate process of her genius: the process she has gone through as she discovers her true self. We witness this discovery when she manages to put in word and image the creative powers of a soul that is always seeking justice and always burning bright with the wild fire of truth.

Porque lo invisible es el misterio
encerrado en la lágrima de una estrella
Ayer como hace treinta años
busco lo que no está
para encontrar mi luz
mi propia sombra
en el invisible gran universo de lo posible––Martivon (pg. 160)

Every great artist has an inner process through which her silent, intimate center faces the vast expanse of the unknown, and every one of them produce art that touches in us that most intimate abode. Their art awakens somehow our own truth. Martivón’s art does that for us, of course, but she takes a step further. Sharing My Inner Space is a living document showing that invisible inner process through which her genius emerges.

Witnessing this book is a most enjoyable experience. I promise you, the core of your perception will be touched by it, and you will find yourself on a journey through your own inner space. I recommend this book unreservedly.

The Stirring of my Beloved

The undifferentiated silence becomes distinct by the introduction of sound and movement. Having forgotten infinite lifetimes, this new appearance of appearance, grabs the attention.

I begin to forget the eternal emptiness. I hear the laughter. I feel the love of the mother. I touch with my tiny hands, and the touch is joyous in the extreme. I experience searing pain and suffering, and the suffering is like fire innundating all my senses. I laugh. I hope. I experience. I become.

In the becoming I transform myself. I create many me’s from expectation, arrogance, and hopefulness. I create the illusion of suffering. I create the illusion of the importance of my life. I create even the fiction of a spiritual path––the reading of the books, the listening to the teachers. I create an expectation of liberation. I create the fiction of salvation. I create aspirations. And in the creation of aspirations I immerse myself more and more in the illusion that what happens to me is somehow of any importance whatsoever.

And so on I continue with the chain,
the unending chain of life,
enlightenment,
and nothingness.

Nothing is permanent.
Not even the experience of the empty
voidness of the void.
Life runs out.
Death runs out.
Ignorance runs out when I realize
the eternal truth of the eternal empty void.

And the experience of enlightenment
and the dissolution of illusion
also ends with the forgetting of the illusion.
It ends with the stirring of experience.
Unending chain.
A cosmic breath between creation and dissolution.
The long night of Brahma.
The eternal dance of the empty void and her beloved, her lover,
the stirring of the experience.

In this Emptiness I Forget

I let go, slowly but surely, all ideas of God, of eternal peace, of definitive knowledge. I let go of the idea that this person will love me forever. I let go of my name. I let go of my title. I let go of the ideas that I held on to. The more I see the emptiness––the expansive presence of the ocean covering and holding the light of every star––the bigger this nothingness becomes, and the more I fail to grasp on the stream of self-important thoughts.

Ordinary life, then, becomes the dream that vanishes upon the awakening of the soul. It no longer matters what happens to me in this life, in my previous life, and in all the chains of incarnations. I am no longer concerned with what will happen to me today, tomorrow, next year, after rebirth, after that life, in other incarnations. That stream of movement and happenings, I know it to be nothing but the subtle vibrations of a mind that moves, of a life that stirs, of the fire of existence.

In this emptiness I forget myself. In this emptiness, the entire drama of existence becomes as nothing but the flickering lights, the little shadows that come across the eyes when sleeping. It no longer becomes important, that life. There no longer seems to be a difference between being human or animal, rock, tree. It no longer seems different to be word or breath, to be flower or bee. I can no longer put my finger on the difference between being mountain or poem, between being the fluttering butterfly in the heart of a young girl or being the industrious burrowing of an anthill.

There is no longer an important difference between the radiant light flowing from the heart of the sun and the lightning strike flowing through a path of emptiness, emanating, spreading light and death. There is no longer any difference between any one thing and any other thing.

I abide in this state of not being; at union with the eternal presence; at-one-ment through the floating, deeply refreshing sensation of being a simple center in the womb of the mother; growing in eternal peace and sleep. I revel in this sweet dissolution in the forgetfulness of life and death.

 

 

This Impertinent Moment

This moment, it is pertinent to say, has been waiting its turn from the beginning of creation. When the sleeper stirred first and uttered a tiny vibration, unaware of it––just a single movement creating the beginning of a dream––this moment of time has been waiting, waiting to appear.

Before this moment, there were many other moments––movements, thoughts, words, actions, concerns, fights, death, life, survival, history, planetary events, starlight floating about in the heavens.

Before this moment, there is an ocean of time. After this moment, another equally infinite ocean of time.

This moment is here; empty and meaningless, surrounded by oceans of time and possibility. There will be a time when this moment is not; and whatever is here now, will not be. When this moment is over, the lights will be no more and the the path trail of light that comes into the eyes and makes its way into an unknown jungle of electrical fires inside a mass of liquid and brilliance called the brain will no longer mark a path.

This moment will then be complete, without a trail, without breath, without movement, without a present.

Moon Path

The path you see in front of you is not the path the others see. We all see the same moon, but the path of light reflected in the moving, living waters touch each one of us individually.

You see a path of light leading from your feet to the moon. Your companion sees the light touching her feet, not yours. So it is for everyone. So it is with the truth. It is clear, undeniable, and objective, yet unique to each one who stands in front of it.”

Tolteca 3

This Refugee’s Heart Forever Longs

I was a refugee once. I knew nothing of an “American dream,” nor did I seek economic prosperity or opportunities. Nothing about your dollar called me. I came here because the army in my country was getting paid one million dollars by your government to kill people like me.

There are so many of us who came here, not to find a better life, but simply to survive. A better life? For life, period.

The road is dangerous for most. We know it well. You risk aggressions, robbery, rape, and death. You give yourself to the fates, the blessing of the elements, and the hope for the kindness of the brotherhood of humans.

You are grateful when you arrive, but you know the ordeal has just begun.

I was lucky to have been able to prove I was persecuted back home, for being a student of Philosophy, for working for war refugees, for speaking up for justice and a better world. Those were my crimes. That made me dangerous. I considered myself fortunate. I arrived to the US unscathed, and I stayed without once being detained. I went to court, and I was able to prove my case. I was one of less than 2% of Salvadorans granted political asylum. The Reagan administration was adamant to not grant any more than that, lest the public knew what he was really doing to my people. I was lucky. There were so many more more deserving, more in need, and more invisible.

The love for your family forces you to suffer all indignities in a place where you don’t feel alive. Between a cold hell and the fear of death, you take one more step each day towards a future where perhaps your children will feel like they have a place to call home. 

For the love of them you leave the people you love and the land where your spirit thrives. For them you accept as normal a life of racism, police harassment, and the indignities of always being the lesser, the other, the silent forgotten. For the sake of your children you give up even the hope of truly belonging to the society you give your life and work to.

Your mind is forever now on the day to day issues of survival, raising children who forget your language and adopt the manners of the people who won’t ever see you as one of them. Your aspiration is to one day see your children happy. Your mind settles for the hope of one day being normal, but the heart forever longs for that place where you once felt a human being.