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In meditation this morning, a regular mindfulness exercise, watching the breath and observing the thoughts and emotions accompanying the inflow and outflow, I found myself moving towards that home beyond heaven, the radiant void, the great unmanifest from which we, and everything else, springs.  Though it is not the purpose of mindfulness meditation to go anywhere and be anything other than a breathing being dispassionately observing, I felt resisting the impulse would be as counterproductive as embracing it,  so I went with the flow as a leaf on the breeze.

I arrive in that “there” which of course, is “not-there” and feel as if I had never left and that the very idea of “I” (as so used here) is laughable.  Later, I am reminded of the phrase “being-consciousness-bliss” and try to recall which tradition it comes from.  But while “there” I am conscious of a bliss that is serene rather than effervescent, an understanding of pure being that is uninterrupted by the various activities of incarnation: the births, the deaths, the sufferings, the joys, the ambitions, the fulfillment, the frustrations, the disappointments.  I feel omniscient and omnipresent and yet tucked quite comfortably in a tiny corner.  I know that the multiverse of created worlds and beings continues to thrive in its constant change, but I do not wish to join the energetic dance of activity.  I am humming along quite nicely on my own thank you!  A more cosmic version of the afternoon nap, one might smile.

And yet I know I am inextricably intertwined with with every other focus of consciousness, either resident or visiting this “there” that is “not-there”.  I know I am complete, that no further achievement in the adventures of incarnation will make me any better, that no practice will make me any more selfless, as there is no self to improve; that no service to others will make me any more worthy, for I am not in any way worthless to begin with, and there are, ultimately, no real others to serve.  The preceeding definitions are all inventions of religions, elaborate rules which enslave the timid and ignorant and justify the existence of those who craft them.

As the hungry have to forage and hunt to survive, so the sinner has to surrender strive to become perfected.  These may be the rules of the plane we inhabit, but they are useless in the light we come from.  “There”, there are no needs or efforts required.  We are beings radiating our beingness.  Though our beingness blooms more with added life experiences it is still, in essence, our being.  A rose is a rose is a rose: blooming is what it does.

Planets, civilizations, prophets and deities: all fall away as unnecessary “there”, for we have no need of their guidance or restrictions.  They are forms we enter, from time to time, to exercise the vanity of ambition and aspiration.  We may fail, we may succeed, we may flounder.  Yet none of that matters ultimately.  All of it is only information resulting from an adventure, information that can be usefully applied in further adventures.

The hunter blending with his prey in the bloody death struggle, the mother dying in the act of giving birth, the peasant merging with soil and seed to facilitate harvest, the noble exercising authority to restrain and reward:  eventually all become stars in the infinite firmament.  As Aiwass said in 1904, through Mr. Crowley, “Every man and woman is a star”.  Endless evolution through the worlds of form imply that outcome. Rock, river, plant, tree; fish, fowl, animal wild and domesticated, human. fairy and angel:  all are stops along the way, all are vehicles for spirit projected.  And where once doubt might reign regarding the numbers, modern astronomy seems to indicate that equation is not so far off the mark.  Billions of stars are out there, all madly racing away from us, apparently.

When I returned from meditation, I yawned and stretched.  My joints were stiff and I was beginning to feel hungry.  Our world, one of many, had resumed its customary role.  I grinned in my gratitude, ready to desire, consume and be of service, for I know that the paradoxes of this apparent journey can, ultimately, only be surrendered to and embraced.  Fighting them on the grounds of injured rationality gets you nowhere.  As Woody Allen once wrote, “Eternal nothingness is just fine as long as you are dressed for it”.