To dwell in a body is to dwell in a state of illusion.  Our senses inform us that we are beings whose form is sharply delineated by the boundaries of our flesh.  We gaze on other forms and feel them to be distinct entities divided from all that surrounds them.

When we were consciousness without form, before and between incarnation, something like light as it illuminates everything without discrimination, we understood the all, the everything that was one, the endless continuum of creation, and we saw our part in the perfect dream.

Because the experience of consciousness without form is very intense, practically without parallel in our daily lived lives, burning away, as it does, our cherished identities as historical personalities, to leave us burnished and glowing with an all-knowing inner light, many of us cannot endure it for long, and even more of us are keen to forget it as an experience deeply disturbing to our present sense of equilibrium.

Juggling such contradictory identities, should you but have even a peek, can be a madness inducing task, so many of us settle for coping with the body and being a personality with a particular fate which seems to be unfolding.  We acknowledge the limits of our flesh and we encounter others with this definition.  The blow is softened by that blissful bonding with the mother; in her body we swim, certain of sustenance.  But when we emerge from that most intimate of marriages, we gradually agree to participate in a world of self and other.  We disavow the continuum of energies which envelope and sustain us.  We get on with what we assume is life.

In our self definied ignorance we grasp at the glow of others.  The uniqueness of their forms becomes a glamour we give in to.  Initially it may seem that we seek re-marriage with the mother.  Though such tempting psychologies may proliferate, that effortless bonding was but a reflection of the bliss of consciousness without form, when we were energy unrestrained by potential or accomplishment.

That state is still within us, waiting to be released.  Is it kundalini at the base of the spine, is it love dwelling in the deepest recesses of the heart?  Is it thought thinking itself over in the brain?  It is all these things and more.

It is the rain pattering on your windshield on a quiet Sunday morning in May.  It is leaves growing on trees.  It is the rules of arithmetic that your child seeks help with.  It is cartoon characters falling from great heights into jelly-like blobs on the screen.  It is the newspaper giving you information.  It is events unfolding in time and space, seeking their place in the patterns of history, in the hierarchies of importance.  It is a bird biting fleas with its beak.  It is everything that is ‘other’, including presidents and film stars, poets and archbishops, beggars and gurus, apparitions of the Virgin Mary.

In seeking out ‘answers’ from anything that is ‘other’, we give away our power to act as facilitators of our selves.  We let someone else do the shirking.