Life is short. For some a day, for some decades. No difference as we spin around space on our earthen ball of experience. Billions who have come before us, as us, birthed us. Billions to come after, here or there, as us, through us. Spinning in one universe of many, universality. Riding one spiral of time, infinity. Clinging to the physical yet with metta in our spirits. Touching, kissing, feeling, loving, looking – searching through glassy eyes into the mirror of reflections. Pain, confusion, explanation, only half seeing. Laughing. Dancing. Moving, because we can. One day, one night. Another day, another night. Another week. Month. Year. Years.
What more is there right here? What don’t we see? Energies rise, coincidences and craziness. New connections through old karmas, old connections through new songs. Songs to express, to find meaning, to explore like the adventures through history, who searched through bodies, jungles, rivers and across oceans rumored flat, mapped spherical with blood and courage. Some questions answered, so much more to make sense. Senseless. Pratyahara.
What drives these days? Working, breathing, eating, surviving, thriving? Conservation of tradition, but what if we were to stand on our hands, see things differently, see more, hear more, be more. Putting attitude into action. Preservation of wisdom. Knowledge of the truth hidden in the roots of the plants, in the pearls that sit in the sea. In the minds of peoples passed. We don’t want to pay for water, water is free. As the air circles with smoke, and concrete replaces stones. Populations expanding, politicians selling, what was never theirs to sell. Solutions, answers, people, genes, parts of space. Perhaps we fight to distract from the reality we don’t comprehend. Perhaps we struggle because of self sabotage. Or perhaps This is it. An experiment of life force, a risk, a trial. But even so, there are so many clues, through the repetition of fractures, through the spirals, the waves, the weaving of calculations. The glimpses of the other side as offerings are left, prayer wheels turned, dreamtimes witnessed. Theories and tools to teach. Repetitions in the actions of ancient tribes, of worship, of communion. Common union, communal, community.
Answer me. What happens when the lights go out when the last candle can’t be relit? As the vibrations of a universe paused in motion and continues to hum. Aum. Be still. Hear. How do we bridge this physical with the spiritual? How do we find the way with our feet walking on plastic? To fight with the body, with metal, with innovation. To fight with thoughts, with intention, with awareness. Expanding, contracting, consumed, exhumed. Shells rubbed to sand, bones buried. We spin as we stare at the sky while it replies in echoes, lightening, storms and sounds. Wanting, wishing, desiring. Desiring darkening the light of consciousness. Of aligning with an existence littered with stars and a land littered with waste. Sharing this breath, this sip, this moment.
How did I end up here? In this body, with this story? With these words to be pulled out of this mouth, which has kissed a lineage of brothers, of fighters and survivors. Which has sang to God and spoke to Spirit. Which talks of living and whispers of dying. And all that is left to say: If only one thing to remember in the mystery of forgetfulness, in the changing synapses of these minds, in the transformation of each cell, aging body, wants and fears. Just remember, in this physical we are Spiritual.
by Bex Tyrer