Can Your World Survive the Times to Come?

What planet can survive the core of a star?

Imagine a planet made of solid brass or lead, heavy and strong, in it’s immovable orbit towards the sun. At first, before it enters the limits of Pluto, this planet will be cold, frozen, heavy, strong. It would be the hardest thing that you would ever see.

As it begins to come closer to the Sun, it begins to reflect the light of the Sun shining bright as if it were made of gold––but it’s not. It is just solid metal, still cold, but as it gets closer and closer by the time it passes Venus and Mercury it begins to heat up. It is still solid, but hot.

There will be a moment when one side is hot and one side is cold, and then there will be another moment when all of it is lit with heat. And then, that planet that was once so solid, as it enters the threshold of the sphere of the Sun, it begins to liquify. What was once solid is now liquid, and then it becomes gaseous, and then it’s completely gone.

Now there is no more planet. It’s just the sun, exactly as it was before.

So it is with the birth of this new consciousness that the human being is trying to birth. All the old worlds are melting away. They’re all gone. And if your identity and your sense of safety is placed on any old world, it will melt. Only by aligning your awareness to the awareness of the New Sun can you forge a new identity; only then can you forge the type of consciousness that can carry such an awareness, and you become a little bit like that Sun dying and birthing at the same time––not in the Christian sense where you die to the world to be reborn later. It’s more like the star who is, or like a flame who at the same time that it is alive and illuminated, it is also consuming itself.

That is what the Sun is doing. It is consuming itself, and giving itself to all around. Align your consciousness to the reality of the New Sun and then you will be as a reflection of this New Sun: evernew, everdying and of irrevocable intent.

Advertisements

Kaira

Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia.

Bueno, llamarla criatura quizá sea tomarse una latitud irresponsable con el lenguaje. No tenía ni siquiera un cuerpo, no pertenecía a especie o género alguno. Por eso es difícil llamarla criatura. Lo que pasa es que también resulta difícil pretender que no era un ser vivo. Aquí es donde la lengua española nos falla. Es un ente, claro está, pues podríamos decir que estaba dotada de conciencia. Pero bueno, tampoco podemos pretender que esta conclusión resuelve la cuestión, puesto que decir que este destello de luz está dotado de conciencia es como pretender que su simplicidad se ve complicada al añadir cualidades externas. Más bien, tendríamos que tener una palabra en nuestro idioma que a la vez nos dijera que al mismo tiempo ella era luz, destello de luz, consciente, durmiente, sin órganos sensoriales, completa, simple, frágil, e indestructible.

Retomemos el asunto paso a paso. Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar. Estaba consciente, sí, pero no tenía órganos de la percepción. No tenía ojos para ver. No poseía oídos que detectaran sonido, ni un sistema nervioso con que sentir. De echo, no poseía un cerebro con el cual pudiese formar pensamientos ni memorias. Quizás podamos decir que tenía una conciencia dormida, como un estado de auto-reflejo profundo––un dormir sin sueños, sin memorias, sin eventos.

Era a la vez frágil e indestructible. Era tan frágil como un instante. Existía porque viajaba de un momento al otro, sin defensas ni estructuras. Viajaba en el espacio oscuro. Viajaba desde el principio de los tiempos, deslizándose por el vacío infinito. Era invisible porque nadie nunca la había visto. ¿Qué es la luz cuando no es vista? ¿Es acaso oscuridad? Quizás. ¿O será más bien posibilidad y espera? ¿Será un grano de la nada en espera del momento en que dejando de ser se vuelva una visión de su origen?

Vino de una estrella. Y por ser luz de estrella tiene en sí la esencia estelar. Si alguien la ve, verá la estrella.

En el momento en que sea vista, dejará de viajar invisible y se convertirá en estrella en la mente del vidente que la reciba. Se convertirá en poema, compañera del canto de grillos y el palpitar del corazón de amantes. Se convertirá en el conocimiento de sabios astrónomos y profundidades filosóficas.

Tal es su fragilidad que dejará de ser destello de luz en el momento que alguien se vuelva consciente de ella. Y tan indestructible es, que después de eternidades en el infinito, se volverá estrella en el momento de su muerte. Es destello de luz estelar, semilla poética, y esencia de la noche.

O quizás no sea percibida por ser humano alguno. Puede ser que venga a reposar en la hoja del árbol de acacia, y así de luz se vuelva oxígeno. Puede ser que como oxigeno sea partícula vital de innumerables seres, que se convierta en molécula de agua y aire. Que viva en el fulgor del fuego, y en aroma del perfume; que viaje en aliento del cantor; que alimente los cuentos de una soñadora.

Era tan solo destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia, eterna y perenne. Se volvió parte de todas las cosas. Se convirtió en todos los seres. Formó parte de todas las mentes y percibió todas las cosas. Pasó a ser aire y luz, agua y fuego. Se cubrió de todos los cuerpos y presenció todos los pesares––y las alegrías también.

Y así vino esta estrella, proyectándose como luz oculta, a ser parte de todos los seres, partícipe de todos los actos, presente en todos los recuerdos. Dejó su viaje por el infinito para vivir en todas las cosas, hasta que un día se encontró en cuerpo humano––frágil como la vida y eterno como el arte––y por tan solo un momento dejó de ser invisible cuando alguien la vio en su esencia natural de destello estelar, y componiendo el idioma la nombró con su nombre verdadero y oculto, con su nombre de destello de luz estelar. Al escuchar el sonido de su nombre verdadero, el destello se convirtió en momento fugaz, materia prima de la consciencia, y la amiga oculta de todas las cosas.

[Kaira es una escritora española de mucho talento. El libro en la foto es uno de sus libros para niños. Está historia es dedicada a ella]

Island of Solace

This island of solace will one day vanish away. It will be washed away. For the more I feel the reality of the illusion, the more I touch the hard reality, the more the events of my life prove to me that whatever happens to me is important, that my children are special, that my life is unique.

The more I entrench myself in this illusion of life, the harder the weight of the illusion, and the harder, stronger, and heavier becomes the self. The less flexible I am, the more mechanical and robotic my move, my thought, my emotion.

The more mechanical and fiercely solid my movement of consciousness, the deeper the suffering is and the more entrenched, harsh, solid, heavy the illusion of I am becomes––forgetting the womb of that mother that lies in the emptiness of the eternal presence of the void.

In this Space I sit

In this space I sit, surrounded by a mystery that penetrates every particle and creek of my being.

This mystery moves. If I look inside I see nothing. If I sense the space before my eyes, I find darkness. If I place my attention behind, I see nothing, a dark shadow. I feel the cold presence of the empty void behind me, pushing me, supporting me.

I notice the emptiness moving through my fingers. I hear the emptiness surrounding my words––words that pretend to have meaning but are carried away from me by this emptiness, the echoes of something unknown.

Even the being who says “I am”, implied in every sentence, the being that observes, that hears, that sees shadow and light, the being that says “I am” sits in the shadows between the worlds.

If I look within the source of attention, trying to find the I am, it retreats even further. When I think I’ve grappled the self, surrounding it in a craftily and carefully constructed web of meaning and concerns, saying “here I am,” the I am becomes smaller, more remote, more in shadow. I look for the I am not realizing that the one who searches is also the I am, forever retreating yet always at the center of every experience.

From Where I Pretend this Game

I let myself sink.

As I sink into the cold embrace of sand and earth, I feel I’m being pulled by the call of the stars above. I move up and down, in and out, both at the same time. I panic for a moment. I grab on to the earth, trying to hold on––no longer to a vestige of humanity, of memory, of purpose. I just try to hang on to any remnant of sensation–even if just of my fingers trying to crack.

Even what used to be strength of hands have become simple waves of electrical pathways, electrical storm all around; the pathway of lightning strike flowing through an empty body, no longer resisting sound or light; a pure vessel no longer existing, no longer present.

I pretend now for the sake of argument that I remember being some thing, some one, perhaps. I pretend for the sake of the game that I sit on a chair, that a body contains me, that the ocean before me does not inundate the space a mind used to occupy.

I pretend for the sake of the semblance of sanity that it is my voice that I hear, that the ocean I observe is an ocean like any other, that one day I will no longer fight the eternal presence of the naked reality.

I pretend that I forgot the empty space without. I pretend that I move in a world round, made of mud and fire; that I walk upon its surface in a body created from the ocean’s salty waters that contains life, movement, purpose.

I pretend that I have a life. I immerse myself no longer in the memory of the beloved but in the dreaming, in the flow of illusions. I realize that I do not need to lose myself in a completely created constructed reality. It is perhaps enough to grab a tiny piece of a memory… a sound… a word; maybe her eyes; maybe a fight; maybe the pretension that I cared about what was happening to me at some point or another in a lifetime that no longer concerns me, or you, or anyone else.

I pretend that I’ve forgotten, that I care about what happens to this illusion of self and memory.

I pretend that I become fascinated with the shiny lights below, reflecting those other stars lost in the immensity of darkness. I look at the grains of sand. I make them important. I turn them into light, into fire, into sensation. The sensation gives way to a form of hand, of arm, of movement, of once space following the other.

Logic, flowing. Language, forming. Yes, no. Dark, light. Good, bad. Male, female. Up and down. Nice and pain. I make it into a game, pretending that the shadows do follow the movement of the body.

A Familiar Space

I sit suspended in an infinite ocean of light and emptiness. From this island of ephemeral beingness is that I see the source of a sound, a small stirring of something, movement and rhythm, repetition. The singing of crickets. A high pitched vibration––not yet knowing if it’s called light or sound.

It starts maybe just as a hint of something, a barely perceptible smell coming from somewhere that I simply call the familiar space.

I sit in this silence in the midst of a lifetime, knowing in part that there is another space. When I sit in intense presence, in the midst of death, I hear movements. Some coming from me. I hear movements coming from outside, from above, from below. Movements which my mind tries to categorize as familiar entities. But somehow I know that something moves outside in strange ways; presences, nameless in eternity. Stirrings of will. Subtle flickers of sound and light.

I know  I am supposed to be something, but the thing that puts together the world does not seem to be fully functioning at this moment. I see my hands. I call them my hands, yet they move on their own accord even if there is no I that moves. I see hints of legs. I hear a voice I call my voice, yet it flows from a space I cannot touch. I move my arm and I do not know how I move my arm. Out of convention I say “I move my arm,” but what produces the movement of shadows and sound? What brings the vibration, the echo of silence that surrounds this body? What brings and moves the cold within––the shadow of death?

If I close my eyes, I sense parts of my body. More accurately, I sense sensations. Around the heart, below, above, I sense a field of presence all around. If I open my eyes, I seem to feel a space before movement, yet  the space I sense is very limited; much more limited than I thought.

I push my hands against this membrane. I push the membrane and I feel you closer. Yet the idea that the world is one is only a projection of my mind. The idea that my body is one is only a projection of my mind. All I can be conscious of is the flickers of sensation––impulses of light and sound that come and move within.

At the Shores of Night

I open my arms to accept, to receive, to welcome this impossibly gentle touch, this impossibly gentle weight.

I open my arms and my heart opens almost as if by mistake. It lifts something of me. It pulls me into its immense reality that seems to erase every other thought, every other doing. It moves in strange ways. My body begins to merge with the quietude; with the solitude; with the loneliness of this long, long night.

I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this. I don’t know how many times I have dissolved myself––merged into it. I no longer know the difference between the ocean blue and the starry sky. I no longer know the difference between the shadows behind and the mind that swerves and moves with the rhythm of the sound of the ocean.

At this moment of realization I find myself before an ocean of light and movement. I find myself at the shores at the edge of creation where dark and light are indistinct, where the depth of the ocean and the height of the heavens are one, where the suffering of my eternal existence and the joy of the presence of the beloved have become one, where death and life are movements of the same dance, where the external ocean and the inner ocean of light dissolve their boundaries.

I no longer fight her presence; for there is no one to fight, nothing to change, no distinctions, no boundaries, no real, no illusion, no me, no end––only the silent consciousness in the ecstasy of love eternal, radiant and beautiful.

 

The Light of far away Stars…

In the presence of this ocean, the inside and the outside have lost their boundary.

I see myself through ancient eyes: an immensity of sound and movement behind me. I see the odd alien old man sitting alone. His face, unmovable. His eyes, dead, reflecting the distant light of far away stars.

I move my hand towards the waters of the ocean, and for a moment I seem to almost touch the starry sky. The cold of the ocean of emptiness comes closer to my hand. I become afraid to go too far into the immense silence, afraid of being dissolved and devoured by the nothingness.

I withdraw, trying to remember who I used to be, where I used to go, the path I used to walk; trying to remember the name I used to have–the family, the friends, the name. The doing. The being. The day to day. The step by step I used to take. The orderly something that heeds this horribly beautiful ocean of blue. 

There is an Ocean…

There is an ocean I see with eyes of ancient memories, an ocean of a deep blue. The depth of the ocean feels exactly like the depth of my soul. The sound of the ocean comes hesitant at first, as if wanting to become present, real.

The gentle reverberations in the surface of the ocean are seen with the eyes and felt with the skin. It moves in soft rhythmic jumps. I sit at its shore feeling sand and pebbles under my feet, and every minuscule portion of sand appears to be complete unto itself; as if every particle of sand creates a unique sensation that travels through my body; as if I could get lost in every single sensation, and all of them are felt at once.

There is an ocean of deep blue. Its depth can be touched by the proximity of my hands. The closer I move my hands to my sightless eyes, the deeper I touch the profound stillness of this ocean. I sit as if waiting, but I don’t know what I wait for. I sit at the shores of this ocean. I hear the crashing of the waves, and each reverberation of the waves sounds as if it is my voice talking and moving and reverberating through the skin of my back.

I sit. For a moment, I do not know if I see the dark waters at the edge of time and creation or if, perhaps, I simply stand at the face of the abyss at the end of a life that I can no longer remember as being mine.

For a brief moment, the terrible thought begins to form that perhaps I do not know where I sit; that there is no ocean blue, no peaceful movement of waves; that perhaps all that is happening is the projection of my illusion of safety onto the immense, incomprehensible chaos––a non-existing nightmare that moves and reverberates, a darkness darker than black, a void, an emptiness that moves, an immensity such that the more I stare at it the more it looks towards me.

That look comes at me as a stream of sound, of words being thought by something flowing through me. I no longer know if these thoughts, these words, are flowing out of me or into me.

I Almost Remembered

I almost grasped one memory. I almost saw her tiny hand. It almost pulled me back to a place of belonging.

The closer the memory comes the farther away I seem to move. I try to relax. I lay down on my back. I open my eyes and I see the starry sky, beautiful in its immensity.

I look at the stars and the full moon pulling me; and the pulling of the full moon is gentle, and it pushes me at the same time. It grabs me with her arms of feminine beauty. It embraces me. It lifts me––or something that resembles that sensation of being me.

I look at this ocean of dark above with the tiny stars rippling like crests of waves in an impossibly big, impossibly old ocean of dark blue. The more I lay down the more I forget why I laid down in the first place. Why am I here? What is it that I’m trying to remember?

I do not know.