Bound less out side of time
Yes exist ence so clear ly bleeds
through all truth s
sim ultaneously if only
watching hap pens
happen stance ly marking s
open out the con straints
Gen uis in spirit
nev er separate d
not ever
fractal f r a c t a l f r a c t a l
what Brings it to get her
takes it a part
kin esthetics
This being human is rather strange
in the pause the gap where this thing
we call time
turns upside down inside out
into itself upon itself
and dissolves
When time is out of the picture
what remains what remains
timelessness not as concept
not as something
to achieve
or arrive at
or even as replacement
What of the ways you track
yourself what
do you measure according
to marks and hours and days
time and money interwoven
under over
what carries what
How can you meet yourself
outside of time what other
references no longer hold
when toys are left to rest
in the toy box
as the heart calls you full to
find your flowering being flowering
Turning inside out inside out
like the cycle of clothes around
the column of the wash tub
like water cascading, interfolding
into a deep crevice of a stream bed
my cells, my being, my heart
circulate, become renewed, nourished
celebrating
holding nothing
needing nothing with everything
that is
as it is all that is
It is naked to not have anything that needs
building, reinforcing, protecting, controlling
Temporary disorientation
more abiding elation
returning to what is
what is is what is
A new
anew
Best description I have here
is that I’m at or aware of some kind of portal. I drew this portal today, which is what tells me it has some presence, some existence somewhere in my being, in the psyche that I resonate with energetically, something of that order.
At this opening, sometimes there is a force pulling me in, sometimes it is something pressing out or visceral pressure as if pushing against. It can change in a millisecond and that’s when it’s most felt, in that fluctuation. A whole other array of energies come into play in that second, as if there is an acute sensate awareness of what is both above and below simultaneously.
Yes, it’s as if the two distinct realities have gotten mixed and some alchemical reaction occurs in that instant. So much information floods through somatically. My brain triggers chemicals left and right, consciousness is in its feasting season, the Beloved has appeared and disappeared both, leaving a wave of breathlessness, insight, exhaustion, and longing all rolled into one.
What feels so appropriate in this drawing is that what is pointed to is the portal, not that which exists or is sensed or felt on either side of it, above or below or even through. It comes to me why some religions have approached the subject of depicting the image of the Beloved, of God and been unable to come up with anything but outright forbidding of such a practice. That which is felt here certainly feels sacred, pure beingness, that which remains unnamed.
And yet, the draw is so very real, the draw to see, to know, to behold, to understand, and to reemerge. For me, these actions are beautifully interwoven, such that one without the rest is essentially partial, not complete. The work of this place is work without working for or towards something. Things happen, but nothing can be done. Things come, the work is resting in What Is.
I had a dream on the evening of March 31st that throngs of people were moving toward me through a narrow passage and I was making my way in the opposite direction. If I were to continue on my way, I was literally having to walk on, climb over others or over their legs and shoulders, squeezing through with some kind of drive that seemed pure spirit. The intensity of this convergence has marked me in some way.
Where is the surrender? Surrender to the drive of spirit, to the nearly inhuman urge forward, to something that seems so single minded or certain that it can withstand such force? And may it be possible as I become one with it all, each element in its place is an aspect of this extraordinary confluence of energies as perceived by this consciousness.
This thing, writing, how is it really any different than thinking, turning introspectively inward, or even self inquiry? What is this stuff of light, frequency, felt sense, understanding ~ the body such an exquisite vehicle for collecting and concentrating all this phenomena ~ changing or not, differentiating or not, being discerned or not? The stuff of consciousness, Already Fulfilled and Not Yet Fulfilled, hexagrams 63 and 64 respectively, are like polar opposite contacts in an electrical circuit: the energy or consciousness stream depends on contact with both points, nodes, or touchstones.
Writing is the stuff of making manifest and fixing something that otherwise exists on its own in a subtle and mutable form, giving the impression that once fixed in writing, there is something real to be grasped. Thus the risk inherent in writing that makes the writing seem more important that what it is a trace of or what it aims to point to. These are marks. That fact can be pointed to easily by simply changing the order of the marks around such that something can still be read, but no sense or meaning can be made of it: t.xyoi liif s;lk fielkb wor nd sook l llll fhk,k.
So what comes before or during writing? Does anything come after? Can what is being pointed to, actually be touched, felt, understood, perceived or is it merely a potential? And if writing is the making of marks, what then is the organization of those marks and what is the perceiver of that of organization, such that the matching of the order of marks may then open out the possibility for a new seeing or a new understanding of consciousness within itself, of itself?
We start anew today, January 22nd, somewhat differently today than other days, as the Sun shifted into the 41st codon or hexagram at 7:19am pacific time. The Sun will stay within the 41st hexagram through this Friday, January 27th. Of course, we start anew each day, with each breath, and in each moment, as we are vibration and physical beings alike. In that, there is something unique to recognize about our DNA as genetic beings in physical form, that form and vibration have an essential relationship with what codes it, shapes it or as such, ‘interferes’ with it in some way.
The message or code of atg, which is the unique set of bases or building blocks that make up the start code, is carried by the 41st gate or gene key. Whether encountered from the outside or the inside, it is this start code that initiates a new cycle somewhere within the living vibration of form and innate intelligence. And yet there are so many kind of ‘starts’ and ‘stops’. What is it that perceives that which initiates the new cycle? And what gets in the way of that perception, if anything?
I carry this 41st start codon or initiator as my personality Sun. I’m speculating here, but I may serve unbeknownst to me to initiate a new cycle for those around me simply by sharing space in aura with others. I do know that I’ve often ‘tuned in’ to what is on its way or about to emerge and have too often gotten that seeing mixed up with my identity and personal interest: a very common presumption of the self that everything we perceive has something to do with ‘me’. In a live satsang with Mooji that I attended via the internet, my attention was pointed to this as he spoke of the role of interest and identity in fueling the suffering of the self.
Similarly, The Genetic Wheel of Samsara is how Richard Rudd titles his discussion on the shadow aspect ~ Fantasy ~ of the 41st gene key. Carrying this gate/gene key in the way I do also has a very specific and deep life lesson for me. I am in the midst, now, of exploring and surrendering to this life labyrinth. I really have very little idea of how…
• • •
Now on January 26th, I see I left this post with a dangling sentence, an open ended phrase anticipating what was to come, perhaps. Anticipation is the gift that emerges out of the shadow of fantasy. Something needs to be open to what is yet to come to perceive what is in emergence. And what was coming for me upon writing this post was another example of how I experience the life process ‘exploring into’ what is coming, even when I am identified with confusion or not seeing clearly.
In other words, life seems to answer my own queries, my wondering towards or into something. Or is it that there is something that perceives what is before that perception, as it exists on the plane of relative consciousness? In the next few days from writing the earlier part of this post, I certainly was shown in a very clear way how Fantasy and it’s link to suffering in my life found an anchor into my matrix many, many years ago.
This post is not about the realization that ensued over the last few days, as I am not called to unfold that here now. I did wish to point to something, however. What I do feel is that there is a weaving in and out of many layers and currents of experience, awareness, and perception, which make up the tapestry or fabric of what might be called writing. I feel satisfaction in the process of writing, but often do not see the end product while writing or even if there is an end product, such that I could take it off my ‘loom’ and place it into a stream of shared consciousness.
I do sense that that role of weaving something of any number of different expressions is a natural role for me. While ‘identity’ and ‘interest in’ are in the mix, these expressions take on a different feel, the colors mixed, the shapes indistinct, the content confusing. I, likely, stay in a fantasy or belief in the self who suffers when I bring my unchecked identities such that the expression is weighed down by interest in the false self.
I have seen, even, how this capacity to feel into what is coming, what is emerging, has gotten tangled in my own notions and attachments of self as I was mentioning earlier, such that Clear Seeing seems to be clouded. Then separation into ‘self and other’ is fueled through identity with self/suffering and interest or stake in that separation becomes what is seen instead.
Yet Clear Seeing is always here/there, nothing can cloud it as it is, It Is All Things. Thus the dance of and the wrestle with self, self-identified and all, is Pure ultimately and can serve as the Teacher just in that truth. The Self holds all and is without conditions. Confusion released within the All is Illumination, fantasy of the self transmuted or released ‘back into’ Self and Self including all Emanates Self.
Here’s to the beginning of a new cycle and All that is held within it.
Self other other self wrestling under the veil of separateness and being
An arm emerges articulates and differentiates, but whose is it? And what directs it?
Discerning takes a lot of courage verve audacity and so easy to mis-take con-fuse.
The energy for this roughs its edges out of my skin like air through soapy water
forming misshapen bubbles until they find their integrity then quickly disperse.
This dance muscular innervating shattering to my semblance of what might hold me
falls like a paroxysm of self only to gratefully burst on the ground of consciousness itself.
lo le wandy wandy ~ has na nanda coca do ~ yes na nay nay ~ pos le low
morta toti, ann de do ~ no why nowhy ~ simply bo show ~ pause le lo
Surprised and stunned, almost, I am this morning as I contemplate something ‘that happened’ recently. Funny thing this, as everything is happening now simultaneously, the organization of reality, the way the brain and awareness join together to display this view before and all around me, including within me. And yet there is something I’ve so commonly accepted as real, something called the past and the ordering of the past. I stand in pause here in relationship to the nature of this emerging consciousness.
What is memory but a dancing of consciousness related to and organized in a way that somehow feels familiar in that moment? Can it be said that the past is memory? Can it be said that we can access the past, as if to measure something of the now against it? I found myself stepping into that field and recognized a Ticket Taker there, wanting a fee for passage, an agreement that how I remember something is reliable enough to exchange against, as if it were a store house that had every protection against any of the contents changing, diminishing, or perishing, as all tangible things do.
How often have I left something ‘behind’ me thinking, assuming, believing that it would still be there to lean into another time when I might need it again? Such is the nature of the conditioned mind. And isn’t a wonder that we rely so heavily on something that is completely unreliable?
I find I’m drawn to this image of the Ticket Taker. The word ‘ticket’ had some energy for me and I looked it up to find that it came originally from the word etiquette or ‘a list of ceremonial observances of a court’, such that a ticket is a ‘permit’ issued by some body or a set of measures to uphold. I’m intrigued how readily that this ticket taker archetype resonates with the feel of the conditioned mind. It’s as if there is a doorway into the conditioned mind that I could pay my ceremonial observances to in order to get entry or not. Thanks to the Ticket Taker today, I chose to pause and not to appease the court, this particular court of the recent past, leaving what is and what was to simply commingle in their mutual simultaneity.
Life Being Life 