Divine discontent: a term I saw often in the early days of my reading in esoteric literature, some forty odd years ago when I gathered that it referred to that recurring state of dissatisfaction with the sparkly things of this world, keenly felt by seekers once the illusions of ego and ambition had been tarnished by the living experience of spirit. Apparently it manifested in a variety of ways, some of which I was alerted to and learned to recognize their appearance in what I still, rather naively, referred to as my self during that agonizing and seemingly interminable process of learning to master the turbulence of my early manhood and move into a more balanced and serene middle age.
That middle age did eventually slouch into manifestation, along with salt and pepper hair and a more measured gait, that miraculously got me from point A to point B without the interference of those grasping anxieties and angers nurtured in the plant pots of youth.
Now, in the autumn of this incarnation spanning the 20th and 21st centuries, as I turn my personal struggles into useful narratives and teaching tools for relative newbies, I see a new manifestation of that discontent arising from time to time. It often takes this form: driving through the sunny autumnal glows of September and October, streets crowned with yellow and gold and streaked with snaky shadows, I can easily tire of the beauty and wish to arise from its velvet grip and into the next dimension, those realms of spirit so congenial to the astral being I become at night when that tired old fellow takes his rest.
I can feel myself, or a portion thereof, projected into those blessed areas where discarnate spirits enjoy the pleasures and joys of paradise as they indulge in all that was seemingly denied them on Earth, while fulfilling the mandate set up by their very selves, consciously recalled or not, on previously re-entering the drama of families and nations.
And yet I quickly know that this charming abandonment will not be enough, that I need to transcend those Elysian Fields furrowed with joys and find myself both higher and faster in a body both radiant and virtually transparent, a body that is barely a body at all, and a focus of consciousness unrecognizable as either character or persona pushing the various agendas geared to growth.
I wish to relinquish all personal being and become nothing, that special kind of nothing that seems to know everything but cares not to funnel that knowledge into any type of action aimed at results. I wish to abandon all effort towards cleverness and power, to emerge into emptiness, where being has no reflection to rub you the wrong way.
Such desires can instantly deflate the direction of the day, leaving you parked and procrastinating. But the brief bath in that quiet unassuming radiance beyond bliss, stripping you of identity and ambition, and leaving you cleansed of all the attributes imposed by vanity, is well worth it.