via Wikimedia Commons
When you drop your expectations, you emerge into the unexpected. Laying to sleep and discarding all thought, the sensory realm shifts and weaves like the horizon line in a soaring bird. Strange and unexpected mind-sounds arise, flashes of light and visions of unknown places flicker. These also drift past when you sit in passive observance as you meditate. There is an ethereal beauty under even the stones and trees when you sit with eyes open, if your heart is open.
Thought is a fictional world, and the comprehended physicality is another, thicker fiction. These wild and strange spaces between the observer within and all this conjuring are yet more worlds. We are, as much as anything else, the embodied intersection of overlapping worlds.
All the blood, courage, and cowardice of beings who came before flows and puddles about the land, in us. The drifting dreams of lazily cascading stardust flows and puddles too. We are coalesced aggregates of the shattered remnants of the infinitely distant and majestic. These are the waters of consciousness.
The future too – not that imagined timeline, but rather those presences of ourselves we glimpse like repressed memory – ripples and shudders everywhere. The depths of earth and the cold reaches of space intersect in you. Time forgotten both ahead and behind is a fragrance in you. The One who dreams time and the dream who is confounded by itself meet in you. Your soul gazes into itself, forcing perception of a reflective fractal. You create worlds by choosing among rays of light.
We marvel at a waterfall or vivid sunset, but it is in us. The conjured world peels itself back and glimpses itself outside, and is astounded and moved. The profound beauty, mystery, and grace of the natural world arises when the witness consciousness dresses as an angel.
Having looked at a gem from one angle, you know it is the same gem when you look at it from another angle. Each day is an angle. Each day you go out your front door, and that instant of passing through the door bears the memories of all the times your form did so and will do so. It is all the same instant. Beholding any instant, echoes cascade all around. If your mind is thin enough, the pulsations of infinite worlds throb anywhere you rest your gaze.
Every stranger you ignore or bug you crush is in you, a self-violence. There is not a single act you do that vanishes. Everything you do creates worlds that you explore infinitely. It is not comprehensible as a storyline of the articulated mind. The mind is only a draped veil overlaying the spiraling vortex of self that has arisen at God’s command. That is well and good – the analyzing, comparing machine should not be used as a boat to pass over the seas of love. Your attention and your intimacy are the ways in which you are to exuberantly splash and play in the waters.
See a pretty bird land on a blighted tree with an open heart. You will stop and sing, free to fly and conscious of your beauty as your feathers glint in the sunlight you pour. You will stand determined and persistent as you blight yourself, as you call longingly to yourself for rains. Your heart will fly as the loving breeze that caresses bird, tree, and man. And, even after you still and the bird flies back to God, these overlapping worlds will play as children in your heart.