It’s innocent in the moment it happens but after that all bets are off. I was sitting on my black leather couch. It’s Sophie’s now. She’s claimed it. It has a hole or two, a weathered seat from all the dogs that came before.
That afternoon I was meditating, listening to Rupert Spira. I liked his voice. I found it comforting and comfort was absent from my body that day. The PVCs were active, making my heart do flip-flops, literally, in my chest and v-tach was still my ever-present companion.
I found, through hit and miss, that the ability to fully be with it, whatever form it took, to allow myself to feel the discomfort, extreme at times, intense always, was more available to me when I meditated … seems paradoxical but I experienced it as quite accurate — so I meditated a lot back then.
Before, what I can only call a happening, I meditated to meditate. I meditated to enter into a higher consciousness, not exactly to escape the world, but that was the result. With the heart blips, meditation found me, meditated me, took me into the full experience of my body. It made it possible to stay embodied. It kept me alive one breath at a time.
Perhaps that’s why I don’t spiritually bypass anything anymore.
So, I was sitting on the couch, the holy black couch, and suddenly, I simply saw the world through different eyes, through the very simple, astoundingly basic, lens of awareness. I knew what I was. I knew what this is. All arguments and questions were unborn, as if they never were.
And … were I to teach, which I won’t, but those who know the story might tell you to find a black couch with holes, a weathered seat that dogs have claimed –arguments would ensue (especially after I died) as to just how big of holes, what shape and the degree of dog scratches and dirt required; next you would need to put on a Youtube of Spira’s voice — bickering and group splits and offshoots would determine which recording should appear; the more extremists camps would invite only those who have heart arrythmias, and the truly pure would require proof of v-tach and PVCs.
Guessing the newly founded religion would skip right over the feeling bit — feelings are messy and being fully present to what appears — be it impending death, extreme discomfort, or the true beauty of deep and abiding love — can’t be bottled.
And voila … a new religion is born.
What was the pure primal unfolding of This That Is, uncaused and unclonable — in an attempt to replicate the result — would be co-opted, bastardized by those who use their minds to go where minds cannot.
There is no way. There is only This unfolding now, This appearing as here, This playing through us all. What is clear, is while I play as Amaya, even though I act and respond as Amaya, it is This that does it all — the Father doeth the works — I and the Father are one.
I have never meditated. I don’t have a black couch. I don’t even have a dog … but I sure appear to. I get to play here in this glorious world as if — as if it’s all real, as if I choose, as if I live, as if I die — because it is and I do. This is the expression; I am This. There is no this and that. This alone Is.