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In a world before time not a word was spoken.
Nature is a symphony; every being has its songs.
The birds have songs that map the world, its winds; they sing the weather.
Whales compose the songs of the seas, diving deep, touring year round.
The oldest book we still read claims the word as god. This
is an awful lie, our fatal mistake flaw. There is no book of
nature, but the oldest story Nature tells is "thou art god"
which is written in the Song of Being Knowing Bliss •
sat·chit·ananda
The divine spirit that instills us and everything with life, love, and itself (consciousness) is wordless, boundless, timeless, shapeless: neither light nor dark, order nor chaos.
Words cannot tell hold describe explain escape contain embody the truth.
Words are objects, removed from subject. The truth has no pieces. It is one and all and no thing.
For millions of years we have had lived and thrived in a
garden of song and dance and plenty.
Let us remember the old way, the new and ancient way:
Our elders lead the song. We learn the song and evolve it as we develop. The song is the truth.
To write the song is not to sing it. The truth is lost without the voice.
Silence contains the song in all its forms now and forever. And the song holds silence through and through.
No one knows the whole song. No one can. The map is not the territory. The terrain holds the traveler, not vice versa.
Each being plays its part to harmonize in the symphony of Nature. No note is repeated. The recording is not the song. The song is composed as it is sung, improvised continuously and full of missed notes, cacophony, and discord.
To understand what is——to being knowing the truth——one must tune in and intone.
The gods are dead. They sleep within us. Death is sleep. Silence is death. The gods live in our deepest sleep.
Each night we die to ourselves and to the world as we sleep. Each morning we resurrect as the Sun, sung up by the chorus of sovereign creatures.
And though we may not want to sleep, we need to. If we do not sleep, we will die, which is the same. This cycle, like Shiva, gives and takes life.
And though we may not want to die, we need to. This waking life cannot fully exercise or fulfill our limitless capacity to love. Death defines life as waking leaves sleep in relief.
We live to love. We exist to love, to serve life in love. We are a function of love reflexive. To forget this, to ignore this, we take form. Forgetting who we are, adopting a shroud of ignorance, we somnambulate.
Form, like a word, is an object. An object implies/requires/necessitates a separate subject. Awareness becomes subjective as it takes form, the duality resulting from which we often call reality (or existence, creating the world, becoming ourself).
सच्चिदानन्द · sat·chit·ananda
Essence, by contrast, is non-dual. Essence is being, Sat. Existence springs forth from essence as it becomes one and then two. (tao-te-ching 42)
Long ago, before time began, when being sat still, and life cycled on as it will, all was one. This now remains the case, though the words that comprise our stories say otherwise. Maya——the illusion——has us.
The mind towers——stories of stories. All stories are fiction. One song is true. La encanta de la flor de lay vida por el amor del mundo y nosotros.
A Song may tell a story, but only in its words. The rest of the song is fact.
Words tell. No one can tell a song. One cannot tell the truth.
Songs are true because they are made of breath (prana) which yokes being to form. Time is breath is life. What breathes, lives. #gems
The song is unseen. It is stillness and motion, silence and sound dancing, weaving void and noise.
Vibration and rhythm underlie form, but are not form. The web of life is knit of music, threads of tone.
Druids and Vedans came from those who once sang the one song. They were the last to carry on as the Tower tumbled and we fell out of unity/Eden/heaven/the continuum.
We can hear the same echoes of that song today in Old Irish and in Sanskrit. The past and future are echoes emanating from Now. #gems
The truth is knowing but cannot be known. When we understand, knowing flows over us. Under the tree of knowledge we stand.
Symbols are objects that reflect what is back to the subject (the I,I) observing. Symbols are echoes of essence. Existence is a holographic echo chamber projected out of the void of all possibility a.k.a. essence.
Mother sings the song for us first. Mother leads the song for youngers and elders. Mother is neither object nor subject. Earth is mother is source is center is truth. Mother nature becomes our lover as we exit adolescence. Our mothers also sometimes forget who they really are.
We are born knowing our unity with mother/source/center. After much wailing (a.k.a. singing) we acquiesce to the stories that surround and overwhelm us.
Before the word, there was god. The word usurped god in our minds, then our hearts. As we take form, our minds create the world, the eye creates light. So the word became god in the objective world.
The objective world is composed of symbols and images and echoes of what is. We, subjective points of awareness, agree on what exists by shaping and sharing symbols. Matter may as well be legos, pixels, code, paper.
Confusing these symbols for what they signify (or point to) is the cornerstone of science, or rather of the dogmatic, dualistic materialism that now masquerades as science.
We who identify as our minds & bodies have two fears: death and madness. Love opposes fear, unless applied to a symbol/object/form, which spawns madness. Thus we fall in love.
Each and any choice springs from love or fear. Fear grows in the dust of unity crumbling. Love unfurls from the center of what is.
An image is an echo in light. A word echoes an image. So while an image is closer to the truth, it cannot be true.
Colors are notes——music for the eyes. Eyes hear the music/song as shadows and light. Light can be true, like song, when left free from image or objectification.
Heroes wouldn't say a word. Heroes sing, they are not sung. We haven't called a hero a hero for as long as we can remember, at least since history began.
Herstory has not been written, which puts it in a position of profound advantage (at least over history) where the truth is at stake.
But Herstory or History must be wordless and musical to be (half-)true. Even Ourstory can't contain the whole truth and nothing but. Like a koan, it can point to the truth. The eye (I,I) cannot see itself.
The song has seven notes, each a movement, that wind into one another. From root to crown, oneness to universe, rupa to atma.
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| R | O | Y | G | B | I | V |
| LAM | VAM | RAM | YAM | HAM | OM | AH |
See more in systems-of-decimal-octave-evolution
To sing is to live. To die is to pause, and to sit in the peace of what is. Even speech can be the song's name if we don't mince our words away from the Source.
Imagine a future where there is no recorded music. A future without a past: simply the Present. What are the words to the Song? In the eternal Now, the Present can contain any words you like, or none.
At the break of Spring our river churns fetid and brown We bathe in the lake slow slog into the chill still until the bubble pops wade back to frigidity dry our hides in plain sight shiver and frolic till there is fire in our bones to stoke.
Grandma calls this the "preservoir", but she's not getting any younger. She doesn't know Wi-Fi from wireless. "Wildfire!" she croons,
Let it burn we return touch the sky dive inside
We got tired of winter years ago, centuries, so we flocked to California. Many moons later we noticed the source as we followed the draft to the crack in the wall.
Frost twinkled about the tiny gateway and though the crushing darkness swarmed our back we paused at the membrane.
The cycles ever twirl. From this simple plane time looks like a line. Looking through the Kairoscope with the Japa Lens, time doesn't fit in mind or eye.
The game of love takes every form. The form we fill, this holey bubble, could do with a patch or two.
Holey bubble easy breather floating lower sneas arising hold the moment then surrender ride the cycle tend the end dear -ly back to center.
Will I be myself again? Of course you will. I'd tell you it'll happen tomorrow, but we both know today is the day it will be when you return home to Taco Burger Pizza Ice-cream Sandwich: the Mana Tree where fall the minds from.
The story begins with a question: HUNH? What you've been through was the rest of it. And now, in this space, of this moment, it can stop, sit, stay, stand.
There is now·here to go as shadows cloak the horizon. Only in to turn, then any way you can imagine.
Paradise is presence. Sleep is death. Resistance is cement. Bliss is the blizzard. Sleep in the mountain. Sit in the snow. Burn the foundation. Wash 'neath the floor. Flood thru the core. ——breathe now—— Every thing dances away from the center and what thing do we need? What would we have stay?
There is a well at the center of everything To drink from the well, one must have the proper cup. To drink from the well allows one to see all that is to feel infinite love to stop time to know boundless bliss to understand the wordless mind of god.
One can attend within and without.
One can intend to attend inward and outward.
One can intend to shape what is within and without.
One is (only) being (alone).
One can sit still (wu wei) think/see feel do/make.
Sitting still one attends inward and outward harmoniously or neither.
Thinking one attends inward and perhaps intends outward. Seeing one attends outward and intends inward.
Feeling one attends inward and may also intend inward.
Moving, doing, making one intends outward and attends outward.
Everything becomes further from the center as it comes to be.
Once there were giants who moved things without hands or machines who sang and danced and sat and made joy who remained one with nature from whence they sprang who held responsibility and surrendered control
The giants built pyramids as they learned the heavens. They elevated into higher dimensions where other worlds were not light years away and where time has shape. Now they live in the heavens on worlds we can barely dream of.
But they've left us clues everywhere. All of nature sings the song the giants perfected.
Why do we hush our babies rather than singing with them?
The spectrum of vibrations our eyes detect is a very narrow range of light. What are the ranges of our other senses? 20 - 20,000 Hz for audible sound 740 nm - 380 nm for visible light
The Giants are Planeswalkers. satah vokar level traveler star yaatree starvokar starvokans
Though they somestimes appear very large to terrestrians who perceive space as 3-dimensional, this is merely an artificial impression effected when a Starvokan flattens in its 4th and 5th spatial dimensions, which redistributes its composing matter into the tree we can see.
Back when the Moon had a sky, she also had no eyes, no mouth. Life on Earth had never been more vibrant, spewing spores out into space, fogging up the cosmos with spunky love dust.
The landscape of the exit ramp civilization peaking we're as generic as we can be basic af
Once up on no time symbols = objects ritual = real image = isness