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The vision of evolving perfection has been written about and alluded to in many spiritual traditions that I have come across over the decades. Individuals, while engaged on their inner path towards various stages of attainment have a satori moment, when suddenly the perfection of everything around them, whether domestic or public, seems self-evident. Some have previously read of such occurrences and recognize the parameters, while others have not and are caught somewhere between surprised and baffled.  Sometimes it is described as an attribute of personal enlightenment, or divine grace, and others it is mentioned as just another stage on the endless journey of unfolding conscious awareness of the universe and our place within it.

In my experience it is not static, some final destination for the struggles of sentient beings, where effort and pain are put aside or ended, but an understanding that the perfection of the moment includes all that appears imperfect, all the irritation, destruction and suffering that are never absent from the fabric of time and space. It is, as already noted, a perfection that evolves in degrees, however minuscule, towards greater and greater pinnacles of that exalted state.  One’s perceptive experience of it can always be deepened, and its boundaries, if it ever held any, always recede to horizons and beyond.

About an hour ago I fell, quite without warning, back into the state that I have just pointed towards as I sat in a parked vehicle, listening to some music and watching traffic whiz by.  As has often been noted, it can happen anywhere and anytime, and has no dependence on one’s mood of the moment. Happiness, fulfillment and joy may be associated but are not necessary present as triggers.  One might say something grandly dramatic, that it burst forth like the sun from a dark cloud, but it did not. It kind of snuck up on me as I was enjoying the music and seeing the rest of my day unfold in a pleasantly ordered pattern.

Then, all perfection broke loose, quietly, like a cat slipping out for a morning stroll. Everything and everyone was exactly where it belonged. Around me and around the planet. The peckish were stopping for a snack at the same outlet I was. The oppressed were doing their dance of death with their oppressors. The divorced were exchanging child custody for the weekend. The man in his dark cloud of mood parked next to me continued to stare starkly ahead. The economic panic of the week would resolve itself in the next stage of activity. Selling would become buying and dividends would self-divide. The waves of refugees would continue to be propelled by the tides of warlike anger and ruthless righteousness, while their part in the transference of ethnicities to new societies would find its fulfillment generationally as children and grandchildren lose the inheritance of oppression and gain the expanded identity which frees their spirit to explore unconditionally.

The callous, cunning backstage orchestraters of revolutions and uprisings that lead to the chaos, fear and ruthless reprisals behind the desperate swell of refugees, would taste the string of their karma in some forlorn future where anguished forgetfulness would embitter with nasty bites.  Not all bad actors morph into innocent victims, but the best among them might break open some memorable arias for unwitting audiences.  Karma collects us all quite carefully, whether or not the egos care to be thus convened. Innumerable pasts of holier-than-thou take care of that.  None are holier, nowhere is more sacred, all beliefs beg to differ.  But the paths, however strewn with corpses brooding under secrets, all lead to the same place: the wide open vistas stretching beyond horizons where history meets eternity and merges.

The brotherhood of man, and women and children, that ancient plan to which I retain an attachment, would continue to be worked out, despite the temporal suffering of the participants. Souls would come and go, changing clothes every day.  Lust for life, desire and ambition could break the back of any man, who would always, when healed, come back for more.  Incarnations would pass like clouds on a windy day, especially when viewed from two hundred years hence, and those monuments of centuries could be sidestepped in meditation by any who might attempt to scale the Everest of the world’s imagination. Anima Mundi continues to be accessible.  I locked my vehicle and walked over to the restaurant, serene in the vision and suspecting I would attempt to communicate it.

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