This Body You Wear

This being inside whom you are living has accumulated desires, experiences, maps, notions, ideas, and behaviors. You wear this being like a space suit that carries you through organic life. If you identify with it, it would carry you with it. If it chooses to allow you in, then you can direct it. It can surrender those accidental whims and desires, surrender all of that to your influence. Then it benefits from you and you can exercise your Will. You become able to do.

It becomes able to be. You, as an essence already know how to be. You cannot cease to be. Not without help, anyway. You know how to be; you can’t avoid it.

At the death of this being, you continue to be. But you cannot do. In order to do you must have a body.

You are inside this animal who is afraid of you, who is afraid of itself, afraid of being eaten, afraid of being an animal, but that’s what it is.

Don’t domesticate it; make a pact with it. Give your Higher Will to it. Allow it to do for you, with you. Your only chance of working in this realm, in this sphere, is through a body like this one whose life you are living right now.

To read more on my upcoming book, click here.

Advertisements

Lucía Through the Shell

When I was in the fifth grade, I had a good friend named Lucía. I called her that because she was born when I was shinning a light behind her shell. It looked like the glow of life came from her as she was stirring alive and broke through this side of life.

My abuelita gave her to me to raise. I carried her warm fuzzy frailty in my hands for the 100 kilometers trip back to the city. She took residence in the small cement square we called a patio, where the water basin was.

I came to visit and speak with her every day after school. She didn’t like to play, but she enjoyed listening. She liked it when I’d tell the cats not to approach, and when I trained the dog to see her as my friend. I failed to train my aunt, who served Lucía to me one afternoon. My older brother laughed at the surprise on my face when I came to the patio after lunch and didn’t find my friend. “You just ate her!,” he mocked.

I covered the real feeling pulsating above my belly, under my heart. I didn’t want him to see. I masked my inner reality with rage, as if the mockery was the only thing I minded. The real feeling, I carried with me safely through life, holding its fuzzy fragility in a tiny square of my solar plexus where a glow of light forever listens and waits.

MARCH 2019 ROSICRUCIAN MASS SERMON: CYCLES OF TIME

From this loop so well described by Paul Rovelli, emerges an understanding of ourselves, or an inner agreement about who we are. This agreement is incorporated into the loop and colors not only the present, but also the way in which we navigate the possible future outcomes. In fact, as Heidegger pointed out, this architecture of consciousness also fine tunes the past. Our understanding of ourselves determines how we interpret and select the past as a story that happened to us. In other words, we are the authors of our personal story, and as we see our path through this lifetime, we put together a thread and weave it as a narrative. The narrator, which is our Self, takes a stance, a point of view. This point of view is determined by this architectonic time loop here described: the memories of the past inserted into the present projects a set of future potentialities out of which emerges a telos (a destiny to which we navigate). Our destiny is the possibility we are creating with our consciousness. A magician, and a shaman, has to approach the construction of this time machine consciously. It is an artifact of our sentience that can be artfully calibrated to give birth to a being who determines its self, a Nahual.

gnostichurchlvx

01 alchemy time

Time spirals in a forward direction; moving from the past into the present, as we dream the future ahead of us.  We are the creators of our lives and have but to see that our linear thinking is not necessarily the way in which we actually engage the world.  The formula we may use is simple enough: past + present = future, or our memories, added to our cognition of the present gives us the dreams that are at present, creating our future.  And when we examine our lives in context of these cycles, we come to a greater understanding of who and what we really are.

View original post

The Great Magician and The Black Sheep

We tell a story of a sheepherder who happened to be a magician, and a very lazy one. He didn’t want to bother to build a fence to keep the sheep inside. The sheep were always escaping and exposing themselves to danger. The magician decided to employ his abilities to keep the sheep inside, hypnotizing them. He made them believe that they were free and safe inside the fence. In fact, he made them believe that whenever he fleeced them, that it was for their benefit. Once in a while, one would disappear, and the sheep were conditioned to believe that she had gone to a better place. In fact, he not only convinced them that he was acting for their benefit, but that they were not sheep at all, that they were human beings. Some thought that they were doctors, lawyers, priests, business people, seekers on a spiritual quest—all approved by the great magician, of course. They thought they were attaining powers and learning secrets. Of course, if they did not know that they were sheep, they would never try to change their situation for real; they would never try to escape; never attempt to evolve. Some even thought that they were magicians and knew the secrets; and all of them had the same fate.

Now, there were a few sheep whose fleece was not as valuable because they were black. Black wool was not as useful as white in the marketplace, so the magician did not pay as much attention to the black sheep, only the white. So, some of the black sheep woke up because the magician wasn’t making sure they remained hypnotized. They realized what they were and what they were doing there. If one black sheep knew the truth and tried to tell the others, the hundreds of white sheep would not listen. Why would they? After all, they were having good lives. They had their problems in their fake realities, but they were fine. Some black sheep managed to escape, and many of those succumbed to predators, but they were free.

Eventually, you had some spotted sheep. With those you could never tell: sometimes they would learn their nature and sometimes not. Of those who knew, some would decide to stay with the white sheep and become completely white.

Most of us are spotted. Part of us wants to be free; part of us wants to be taken care of by the Great Magician. That’s why I say, be careful with your gifts. Some of those are fake, given by the Great Magician. Someone said to me, upon hearing this story, “Be careful with your words because they can get you in trouble.”

I make my words so they get me in trouble. I am at war with the Great Magician. I am the black sheep. I am black, all black. My wool is not for the marketplace. My wool is the obsidian black of the eternal night sky, and its shine is the silence of the endless.

Read more in Teachings of a Toltec Survivor

Sacred Aspiration in a Fool’s Hat

How paradoxical, the nature of the search!
That which we seek, keeps moving away by the mind that places the attainment outside, beyond, later.
The immense vistas of freedom emerge, instead, as the vast horizon, always separating and unifying, in the same instant, Heaven and Earth.
And as the horizon, our aspiration remains present yet unreachable, dividing yet unifying, always perceived and never touched.
Ah, paradox of my path, holding the way and the why! You are the rim of my hat, and I but the clown who kicks his hat away every time he bends over to pick it up!

The Watcher

Every thought comes and goes.
Every second of time comes and goes.
Every aspiration comes and goes.
Every lifetime I’ve had, it comes and goes.
Every second of time, it comes and goes.

Every flicker of time, it comes and goes.
The watcher watches; and when I move,
the watcher watches.
When I dance, the watcher watches.
When I love, the watcher watches.
When I kill and consume the flesh of my enemy,
the watcher watches.
When I sin of hatred, the watcher watches.
When I sin for love, the watcher watches.
When I pray to God, the watcher watches.
When I blaspheme against God, the watcher watches.

The watcher watches all the time;
and it does not change;
it does not move.
The watcher watches;
and the watcher inside me is what the five watchers
perched on the Tree of Life,
vulture like,
beady eyes,
and through the darkness within them,
watch the watcher within.

(The Watchers, from Koyote’s Angelic Host series)

We are co-authors of what we read

The writer is an author creating the flow and rhythm of speech. Any time we translate a manuscript from one language to another, however, we reinvent it. We create it again, and when we read the written word we must translate the meaning, and in doing that, we reinvent it, recreate it, and give it form. We can’t help but be the co-authors of everything we read, everything we understand, and everything we perceive.

Soap bubbles, these worlds

When I dream, I like to see these worlds grow like tiny bubbles of soap. I like to see them color up and take on the shimmering lights and tentacles, to then explode into unnamable sentiments and feelings that I could almost name–if only I could remember the language of all.

I see the ones that are still here scramble away from me, swimming through the currents of air that flow into them. I try to touch them with my hands and I cannot. When I get close to one, it vanishes into the nothingness of illusion and memory. I know that just a few seconds before I was seeing those tiny universes made up of flimsy shells of dream stuff.

I can only remember them when I am asleep. I know that when I fully awake, they will give way to a shared reality in a solid world. Or in something that pretends to be a solid world but contains within it millions of little creatures and worlds that scramble away into remembrance and lost memories as I bring my hand close to the light and touch them.

The Kindly Ladies: God’s World

I remember standing with the body of a child, looking down into the cement floor of the street in front of my house. I remember looking down as if I was a god or an angel, as if I had the eye of an eagle. I remember looking at a world small and remote. I remember leaning over a small fence, watching these tiny creatures—impotent and unaware of the one observing them.

I looked at this world of God, and the more I saw this tiny world made of concerns and intent, the more my consciousness was pulled into it. I became fascinated. I didn’t notice when I passed that tipping point. It happened in that silent moment between breaths, where no thought passes trough you, where no stories are told—that place in between moment.

I fell into God’s World. And it took me a while to get my bearings.

The sequence of ages happens to be only a feature of the moment I’m in.

I didn’t know some times if I had dreamt my memories. I didn’t know if I was me or my brother. I didn’t know if was dreaming that house, or if I had dreamt that other place in the jungle among pyramids. Had I just been born, or had I just died from that wound? Sometimes I got confused remembering things not from the past, but happening right now in different bodies.

I was living all these lives, all at once. I was confused by all these things happening to all those bodies. I started up asking a question and ended up telling a story. I would start a story in one body and continue it somewhere else, and in the end I had done nothing in this body.

I moved about this life between story and story, putting a lot of attention on making things slow down, so that the story I told of my life could be told as if it could happen, as if it made sense. Putting much care in the spinning of each piece, weaving each strand, forming a work of art with the cacophony of color and events: to make something whole out of non-sequential chaotic star dust; to sit as an old woman weaving the story now. Or, like a spider, extracting the web from within my womb to lay out for the wake.

This is the beginning of the Kindly Ladies, and the spinning of stories and the laying of worlds.

(Click here to help support this podcast)

Listen to this episode of The Telling by Koyote the Blind