I decide to speed up my walk and make them work harder for their lunch. Carpet creaking accompanies me. Somewhere up there somebody is coordinating all of these noises. The Oscar for Sound Effects goes to him.
Thanks for casting me. The organ? And that is what the wind is. It is no accident that in many languages a single word does triple duty, meaning wind, life and spirit. And life is music; the music that souls make as they celebrate incarnation.
Misaligned incarnations result in cacophony, while aligned souls harmonize with the music of the Metaverse. What kind of music emerges when the percussion section is not listening to the string section; or the woodwind section to the brass section?
I regularly attend a local symphony orchestra called, Pena Creek. So, here I am sitting on a little bluff some twenty feet above the creek. A gentle zephyr is ruffling the surface of a sleeping pool making it gurgle happily like a semi-awake, absentmindedly-suckling infant at the breast. Then the zephyr softly caresses the tall grasses which grow impossibly from a cleft in a soil-less rock in midstream, causing them to whistle like a chorus of concert flutes.
On the opposite shore, a strong, deliberate wind is playing among the redwoods. They sway sensuously from their knees up, groaning with the pleasure of the touch. I hear them whisper my secret, sacred name, which is known only to my soul.
When I turn my face into the wind and play with the shapes and sizes of my oral orifice, it produces all known human vowel sounds. I am a spirit practicing the languages of Gaia. Though I live 17 miles from the ocean, I can sometimes smell and taste the salt air. And, after a satisfying noon meal, as I sit on the deck, the breeze will sing a lullaby, as it gently presses my eyelids shut for a post-prandial nap, so that I can dream of the other miracles it is creating.
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John Garry, beside whom I had the privilege of working for some of my 14 years in Kenya, is the best missionary I have ever known. And missionary is really mission -ary, somebody on a mission, a person of purpose. On the day I took over from him in Kipsaraman Catholic Mission — high in the hills of Baringo in the Rift Valley of East Africa — the parishioners came in huge crowds to honor him and give him gifts of maize, eggs, hens and goats.
The Parish Council had organized a great farewell celebration and even rented a microphone and loudspeakers for the occasion. The reason John was leaving Kipsaraman — a mission he had built from scratch — was that our missionary order — The St. In fact, John would subsequently be abducted by a rebel band and frog-marched over a period of several months before being set free. Gratefully, he is still hale and hearty as of this writing.
I have heard you calling in the night. I will go, Lord, if you lead me; I will hold your people in my heart. This was a promise made not just by Isaiah nor by Fr. John Garry, but by every soul currently incarnated. Each of us is here because our hearts are bursting with love for humanity. Alas, incarnation creates amnesia and most of us have forgotten our fervent promise and are either sleepwalking our way through life or even consciously cursing our lot.
In this two-part essay, I will suggest four questions that might allow us to dissolve the forgetting, reignite the promise and rekindle the love. Firstly, I need to say who God is not. He is not the dysfunctional, rage-aholic parent who threw his pre-rational kids Eve and Adam out of the Garden of Eden for the childish act of eating forbidden fruit.
Nor is he the cosmic psychopath who, in a fit of pique, wiped out all of creation in a flood. Neither is he the prototype for Stalin, Hitler, Genghis Khan… displacing nations and mandating his followers to conduct organized, serial genocides. And God is neither a law-maker, a law-giver, a law-enforcer, nor a law-punisher. There are no human categories capable of articulating the Isness of God, even though we regularly experience it.
The best we can do is to separate the Transcendent, ineffable, mystical gnosis from the Immanent, incarnated expressions in Nature-writ-cosmically-large.
Pantheism the notion that God is the sum total of the manifest realms is utterly inadequate. Perhaps, Panentheism the notion that God is both the sum total of the manifest realms and infinitely more, about which we can say nothing; nor even experience is less inadequate. If Nature is Hamlet, then God is Shakespeare, who was much more than all of his published works. It is the gap — the vast separation in scale — between the ego and the soul that creates all of human suffering.
The ego is a single star, utterly convinced that it is the All-Seeing Eye of God, and regarding all other stars as pretenders to the throne. The ego is necessary for the experience of incarnation just as long as it realizes it is the servant of the soul and not its master. It is the chauffeur in the limo of life not the VIP resting in the back seat. All human suffering — personal, interpersonal and even international — comes when separate, insecure but inflated egos battle for the top of the pyramid of power.
History — personal, tribal and global — bears gruesome testimony to the results of this megalomania. He is totally lost until he spots of group of black-clad, grey-bearded, somber-looking Amish men in the distance. It bespeaks a special relationship but, initially, one based on geographical proximity rather than quality of connection. Each soul is committed to two levels of mission. Firstly, to grow in love as an incarnated individual; and, secondly, to be part of the team that shifts the world into Christ Consciousness. Let me examine each part. We are born with two basic emotions: fear and love.
When love is inner-directed, it becomes self-esteem; and when it is outer-directed, it becomes compassion. All of these then combine and permute to create all of the other vices and virtues. In effect, all vices are simply fear in different environments; and all virtues are simply love in different environments. The individual mission, then, is to work on developing a few forms of love e. The hand that you were born with is the hand that you pre-planned in the bardo before you incarnated. Mostly, however, we preen ourselves on our talents until the ego begins to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy, and we project our problems onto others and then throw stones at them.
Any vice, in reaction to the behavior of others, is a waste of the drama set up specifically to teach us to love. You chose these very opponents for the expressed purpose of improving your own skill set. So, we are all learning different virtues.
Getting angry at people who major in English Lit because you are majoring in Physics is to misunderstand the whole idea of a university. To indicate the scale of this breath-taking vista, he has included the figure of a human standing beside an enormous tree. This is the hubris, the illusion, the ego-driven original sin that turns miracles into mere matter, and measures out eternity in train schedules. That seems to be the defiant manifesto of most people. This should be an easily dismissed illusion but the fragile, paranoid ego is expert at creating a pastiche of real past events, distorted past events and fictitious past events.
And let me add a sidebar here to distinguish between sensations and perceptions. So, each memory is but a tiny slice of a real event; which means that my identity is built entirely of faulty, partial and incomplete data. So, can we ever shift out of that very limited perspective? The result is that we operate from a new physics in which time, causation, conservation of momentum, conservation of energy etc. Reality is then a dance between the mind and the astral body, a much subtler one than the physical spacesuit.
Once more, the self is much extended. And, of course, that can activate the imagination which is the most creatively important artistic, scientific and mystical faculty we possess. This is what Hinduism calls, Ananda bliss. There is absolutely no sense of a separate self.
She was disappearing inch by inch, vanishing into thin air, and then one day a postcard arrived There was no return address, no signature, only a scrawled message: Shelby Richmond is an ordinary girl growing up on Long Island until one night a terrible road accident brings her life to a halt. We offer everything you need to make the perfect romantic getaway. But Sookie suspects otherwise and she and Sam work together to uncover the culprit - and the twisted motive for the attack. Confectionately Yours Collection? The stakes are high, the battle is bloody; and through it all Schuyler is torn between duty and passion, love and freedom. Previous to that, she combined her love of science and theater with Infinity Box Theater's Galileo Dialogues.
The mystical literature says that even in deep dreamless sleep, the enlightened ones have a sense of radical union with Awareness Itself — no separate self, no contents in the mind, only pure Consciousness. Does that remind you a little of an infant? And, most importantly, its memory bank for this incarnation is pretty much showing a zero balance. Sensations and emotions pass through, do their shtick and depart without trace.
Do you live here? Yes, I remember that! Each child, for all its flashbacks, will have to encounter the long, arduous journey of incarnation; to be marinated in the crucible of life and so, learn to love no matter the circumstance. This is a task taking many, many lifetimes. And what about the other bookend of that journey? Such people can still have new experiences, but lack the capacity to store them.