It happens all the time, just like birth and death, but it is something of a challenge to perceive with clarity.  Most of the mystically inclined throughout what we call history would declare it invisible to normal sight, perhaps even to the newly activated third eye.  A fully operating crown chakra would know, if it felt so inclined after interrogation by the ego, should the ego know that such questioning is possible for the aspirant, who may have heard that consciousness enters form without fanfare or forewarning but remain naive as to the tracking of each occurence,

As it is,  any number of sparks from the divine fire, that realm of the unmanifest beyond all paradises and heavens, take wing into the spheres of form, becoming something by entering the seed of a body,  by encoding its dna, by blending its energy with the physical structure, by taking up residence in that all-too-fleeting house, by becoming the owner and enduring the obligations that come with such territory.

Leaving the infinite for a ride in limitation, becoming an “I” that immediately creates “the other”, and all the little others which comprise it, forces us to shrink our immense understanding of all and everything into a tiny frame overwhelmed by fear, hunger and desire.  The world of self and other: we all live there, breathing the same breath and hearing the same heartbeat, but our addresses conspire to separate us into dwellings distinct in their trifles.  And as we dance through the details of our comedies and dramas, sparring with every new tune, we dive into the illusions that draw us onward into the suffering which moves us to seek solutions and escapes.

Those solutions are many: the comforts of love, the warmth of family, the fortress of money, the reach of status, the throne of pride, the purpose of ambition,  the prize of success.  All are temporary, all are fragile, all can collapse in a moment’s contempt.  And often do, despite our urgent stacking of safety measures.  That urgency, that insistence, that determination to outsmart suffering, it does little but construct a series of shoddy shacks which misfortune can easily find and flood.

In our despair at being so decimated we can sour into resentment or sweeten into repair.  Either way we learn the lesson that leapt up into our laps as we snoozed by the fire.  Life lessons can make us loopy with anxiety and murderous with dread, all of it unpleasant and distasteful to the heart.  And all of it is the inevitable result of creating an “I” to experience the world and its multitudes of others.

We enter the Game, knowing it will grind us down into a fine powder that will serve to imbue the waters of life with a pungent aroma that could only be us, an aromatic tincture that will be added to the menu the next time we choose to make a meal of ourselves.


When the “I” that is here, pretending to be me, looks back to the boy and before that the baby, and before that the spirit about to enter, and before that the being bouncing around the astral being love and foolish fun, and before that the Monad, the Atman, the all knowing essence, supervising planets and seeding them with sparks, simultaneously a minor deity and an army of unknowing disciples, some smart, some stupid, some sniffing the breeze for clues, I see the unfolding of the great mystery of Being being something other than enigmatic,  being more a pile of desires eating each other’s shadows, all the while ignorant of the light which breeds that shadow, believing all is real when really it’s not.