I have all these pictures of this place that 'I' inhabit, of the 'past'. I am told they are the 'past' by most people. I avoid people a lot.
I look at them and see a 'me' that is not me, some body inhabited by my 'spirit'(?) ,that was used for a time. I see my sons and they are inhabiting little bodies, I see my husband and he is always 36 years old. always. He used to tell me (there I go with the 'past' idea again), that he never wanted to grow old.
He never grew old using a body.
I recall thinking, at the time, "I will be an old woman and he will always be 36."
I know better now, I am told there is no time and this is all an illusion.
I am told by sages to stay in the moment.
But, none of these sages like Osho or Swami whatever, have given birth to a son's body and then walked in and found their son's body , now no longer being used.
Except for Mooji. I like him.
As I was looking through the pictures, that I am told are the past, I recognized the happiness I was in. I was always happy. I loved this place.
Even after my husband left his body, I was motivated to continue loving this place, motivated by my love for the children.
I loved it and never wanted to leave it. I embraced it as a delicious soup to taste every day, a buffet of delight, a constant source of pleasure. I loved everything about it.
There is a scene in a movie about an angel, called 'Michael', where John Travolta , who plays the angel, is standing in a field and he says "oh....." as he opens his arms to the earth and sky..."Ohhh, I will miss this place..I love it so..."
I felt the same way.
I realized, however, I was attached. Attached to it as real. I embraced and loved it in every way, but I guess I had to grow up and unattach. I suppose, as they tell me, I chose this whole play, this whole scenario, before I was incarnated, the very wise ones tell me I chose to learn or some damned thing.
I learned, so quickly. When I found my son's body, I began to hate.
I hated this place, I hated this thick cesspool of a dimension. I watched as any affection for it just crumbled, just fell, like walls around me, every tree, every babbling brook, every form in my sight and sound in my ear was grating and ugly, and I would no longer see it with love again.
It had to be destroyed.
I was told by people I should learn to love it again. I stopped talking to those people. They wanted me to reattach. I cannot. I never will.
I do not hate it now, but I did. I was supposed to hate it, to watch it dissolve. I do not hate it now.
I do not love it, I do not hate it . I do not think anything of it at all.
I 'look' at the sun or the moon or the dawn or the snow or the birds and trees and am not affected by them. I see them as imaginary anyway, they are merely reflections and shadows. That is all. There is no substance to them anymore, I do not open my mouth in joyful awe , but just shrug my shoulders with a 'meh'...transitory...temporary.
I prefer the sights that I 'see' with my eyes closed. Knowing full well these 2 eyes on this illusory face have a spectrum that is so invalid, I close them. They take in light and I only 'see' what the neurotransmitters allow. 'Let us make a form,' say the neurotransmitters 'from the Light..' 'Lets show her a chair!'
I take my 'eyes' and throw them away, they lie all the time.
In the Upanashads, it says that 'The Ear is the Path'..perhaps I trust the ear more, as it listens to the binaural beats that sock the brain with a comforting wave , it is motioning and rocks all of this be-ing , I can feel the whole thing go into a balance, as tho each half of this brain thing is being told to shake hands and be friends.
A near death experiencer told me once that when she was about to leave her illusory body, the walls of her home began to dissolve..slowly dissolve...her brain must have not been able to decode and decipher the illusion of walls anymore..
Sometimes I sit and squint and watch the walls and the chairs and all the other objects that my field of eye vision keep telling me is there, and I pretend they are dissolving. The minute I stop squinting, wham. The eyes start to lie again.
It's like being in prison.
But there is a small crack in the wall, when I close my eyes. a little bit of light comes in when I shut up.
Maybe the scientists are correct, and there is a 'Marianne' out there still running in fields, and laughing, and climbing trees and loving this damned place, and it is all happening at once and this is just a dream of a dream and I will go home and be glad it is over.
I suppose it is a longing, a deep loneliness that I am in, for Home. For Joey, For my other sons to 'see' there is no death and they are safe, for my true be-ing to emanate, a loneliness when I walk in this place that my eyes lie to me about, it is a Limbo place, a neither here nor there, an unsteady fortress as poorly built as the fortresses of the pigs in Angry Birds games. It has been knocked down now, and there is no place to go but inside.