As we proceed on our inner journeys, employing whatever paths, traditional or innovative, that seem to fit our current needs,  – prayer, yoga, meditation, running, sacramental psychedelics,  – we arrive at the understanding that all is consciousness, matter, thought, emotion, that everything is alive and self-directed, aware organisms pushing the envelope of their potential.

When we arrive at this juncture it is often the fulfilment of teachings studied and practiced for years, concepts and theories that seemed to unravel the paradoxes and mysteries structuring the obstacle race that seems to constitute our lives.  All those whys and hows uttered in frustration and  resentment.

When our personal perceptions confirm the teachings we have studied and practiced there is usually a tremendous uplift of exhiliration that erupts in our hearts, or maybe charges down through our crown chakra, illuminating our earlier ignorance as some silly detour on the way to the destination that is here and now and always has been, had we not been distracted in some dalliance with the shiny baubles of temporary illusions.

That exhiliration, to be one with all that is, all the microbes, elementals, committees, transactions, beliefs, communities and tragedies, while invigorating to the aspirant, is almost commonplace for the archangel or adept, or any highly evolved being going about their business.  To them we are like children in the playground who have found the gate in the fence is actually unlocked and the river beyond safely shallow and full of delightful little fish.

Our brief encounters with such cosmic conciousness are indeed a taste of the holy grail hinted at and sometimes promised in all the ancient teachings.  Usually we cannot sustain the transcendence of self-consciousness for very long, such is the fragility of the new body built to experience it.  It only gains strength and flexibility from repeated exposures to the bracing radiance that the elevation encounters.  Our personal concerns and petty ambitions always reassert themselves with that familiar pride of attachment, anchoring our flight into the empyrean in the harbour of habit and neurosis.

But even these brief interludes in the line up of tiresome committments that claim our time can be enough to show us that we are at one with the consciousness that is endlessly creating and recreating the universe as it expands beyond any horizon we devise for it.  For we, as incarnate experiments dreamed up by Monads making adjustments to earlier templates, are endlesssly creating and re-creating our selves in the various worlds available for the quenching of our thirsts.  Those selves are never inactive, whether alive on the physical, alive on the astral or footloose and fancy free in the nirvanas of formless radiance, we never cease to participate in one fashion or another.  Our slice of consciousness operates more or less exactly as the greater ones, like the fabled Amina Mundi, do, exploring expansion and contraction and self replication in any manner perceived as possible.

All this can be experienced in moments of meditation, consciousness projection or psychedelic intoxication.  How much of it can be absorbed and retained for further use depends on the flexibility of the fragile ego, who much prefers the habit of forgetfulness, where blame can be righteously apportioned and responsibility playfully schucked.

Why did no one tell us the gate was unlocked?  What was all that stuff about the river being too deep and dragging the unwary out to sea?  When will authority release us from bondage?  Why does society allow such injustice?  What are you really doing god?