The Story of Separation is a Lie

There are many things I don’t want to see. Things outside me that hurt. I don’t want to see someone being criticised on national TV. I don’t want to see images of terrified people running from bombs. I don’t want to see someone be asked to explain themselves in front of a crowd.  I don’t want to hear someone tell shiny lies. It is all the same. All these things hit me like a shovel. I judge the story, I recoil.

I have never run from a bomb, and I have never been criticised on national TV, but I have told shiny lies, and I have justified myself in front of a crowd. I have slipped into different roles to make sure I look right. I have been unaware of my own pain. I still am.

I get so restless, so needy, so desperate for something in tiny, imperceivable ways. The relief of a compliment is enough, when I am in this state, to allow a shadow in the back door of my being, to weave a smooth, cool spiral which could take me down to a whole new addiction of the mind which I was never aware could come clothed so simply.

I see the mind can freeze the heart's knowing, no matter what depths of truth it has spoken to me. A hunger is activated, and so a craving of my wounded soul. My heart is also full of shadows. This is the soul's work, to know the shadows so I do not mistake them for light.

Fear drives my unawaken self (my conditioned and often extremely well-behaved self) and the unawakened self is so often present in me. Whenever I judge anyone else for being too loud, too busy, too unconscious, but also for being a victim of some inexplicable evil, I know I am that very thing. I am the thing I am scared of. I am the racist and the despot. I am the woman who carved her body into something beyond her. I am the cheat and the liar. This is the reality of fear. I conjure it in self-righteous judgment which names the things that hurt me as 'out there'. It is all conjured in the soul, in its shadows and fear of the light.

Awakened, I move seamlessly and lovingly through all things, neither under threat or in relief, just bobbing, like a feather on the ocean, swirling, going under, popping out, then still, swishhhh, swissshhhh. It is remarkable to me, shocking even, that we are beyond human aid in the world of the spirit. That there is only the very special pain of relinquishing attachment, the pain which births a new being. Once I embarked on that journey, there began the spontaneous visitation of bliss, a knowing, a completion, in the clarity of purpose, in the sense of presence, in the reality of being, in the interconnected, heart-directed action of a moment. Then I am with myself, as an extravert, or introvert, as a lover or friend, as a worker, a volunteer, a sister, shopper a devotee, a driver, a couch potato. There. When I write. It is here. Alone and full, and all things.

I was told in a dream last night, as I ran away from a burning building, following a man who I knew was a marine, who I was following because I knew he would keep me safe, I was told by him, he turned to me in a dark alley as we ran, and said, you cannot come. He said, you are not supposed to follow me in this life, Emer.

Now I see, there is no one in the alley. There is no alley. There is only One. And it is magnificent in all the ways it comes to us, there is no need to look away. Actually, we must not look away.

We have one job, to know our Love, I say Love, but you can call it what you will, it is of the precious understanding of the soul.