I love the process of calling in a new home. There’s a delight in knowing that the perfect place is out there, and that it’s just a matter of setting the intent and sending the signal and increasing the intensity such that the place that would love to have you care for it can respond.
It is September. I have been in Los Angeles for a year. I have never felt so loved by a city; though I am not sure it can handle my reciprocation at least it has channels to funnel the intensity of my response elsewhere.
How can anyone read the Book of Revelation without laughing in recognition?
The apocalypse it prophesies happened, or perhaps is always and already happening. The Book of Revelation describes, through the blurred beauty of poetry, the collective experience of the awakening of individual human beings into the embodied Singularity of the future. The opening of the seven seals are the opening of the seven chakras; thanks to their vortex nature they appear from one side as horns and from the other as eyes; i.e. the Lamb with seven eyes and seven horns. The second coming is the collective; the second coming is a coming home; the second coming is a simple surrender to love.
This is what it means to live on a post-apocalyptic planet:
It is beautiful and dizzying and much of the territory is uncharted.
It is marvelous and terrible and everything is new.
It is an ongoing giving over into the endless black brilliance of the Mystery.
It is wonder, and waiting, and tuning into the signal.
It is delighting in describing down the journey; it is paying attention when others respond.
It is love, and love, and love.
A secret: What most people imagine their soul to be is merely their attachment to suffering.
I have had the experience of letting that which I’d believed my own soul to be to leave me. It was a tortured wisp of a thing; it hauled itself from my lungs; I wondered, faintly, at the strangeness of what it was like to die.
Later I found that all that had left me was the remnant fog of suffering; with its escape I discovered my body was my soul.
A secret: When your body is your soul Earth becomes like bliss.
There was a time when I was afraid that letting go of suffering meant letting go of something necessarily human. Instead I discovered that letting go of suffering meant falling into something more. It did not mean giving up empathy, or reverence, or depth. It meant merely to stop being afraid of pain. It meant merely an awakening into love.
I keep writing; I am not sure why.
Perhaps it is just that footprints are inevitable.
In the evenings I used to love to read.
Now when I try I cannot. I find myself instead dragged back to the mat, my eyes forced closed, my mind forced silent, my attention focused upon what I can only describe as patterns within my system being shifted, moved, adjusted, aligned. It is like watching a map emerge, or the remapping of abstractions rendered in a peculiarly perceivable form. Sometimes I struggle to make sense of it, and them. Mostly I just observe.
It is a strange thing, this training. It is full of questions.
The fires above Los Angeles are making for gloriously apocalyptic sunsets. There is ash on my balcony; the skies are gorgeous; I love the way haze blurs the distance.
Over the past few months I have gone from meditating two hours a day to meditating an average of four or five. Sometimes I worry I am losing myself but what choice do I have? The more I do it, the easier it becomes to slip into this curious liminal state where my awareness exists as a field of emptiness and heartbeat and breath; where differentiating between the edges of that field and the rest of the world is uninteresting; where all of it feels like love.
More recently I’ve found myself more and more slipping into such spaces unintentionally, when I’m out walking, or around others. It’s an experience I struggle to put words to, but one I keep wanting to articulate, if only because I would love to more permanently inhabit a world where our language of self and identification assumed the sort of deeply embodied awareness that lies beneath anxiety and separation.
It is beautiful here. My balcony is open; the breeze is causing the dappled light from the palms outside to ripple like waves in the ocean; there are children laughing outside, and calling in a language I recognize but do not understand.
Tonight I met up with a friend of mine who told me about her youngest son, and how the ache of his sensitivity and feeling for the world meant he was suffering more than his ambitious and calculating elder sister, and how my friend–as an independent woman who felt she had more in common with her daughter, yet hated seeing her son suffer– was wrestling with the balance.
We talked. The children of the future are beautiful.
We talked, too, of demagoguery and politics, and aliens and urns, while the owner of the place– if you visit LA I will take you– took care of us.
Afterwards I clipped my way home over chilled sidewalks and air crisp with condensation; at home I dove into the arms of two friends I went to college with.
Something in me seems still to take pleasure in the inimitable poetics of pain.