I was made to be inside
and free from it, too.
You have a body. A life forms around it. Consciously or obliviously, you experience yourself in structures held in place by myths your active presence here creates.
In the context of a room, a neighborhood, a city block, the spinning planet, a galaxy uncharted: you seem quite small and inconsequential in your fleshy vehicle.
This is the deception you’ve agreed to — a willful forgetting keeps you safely tucked into a pocket of existence your brain can functionally fathom.
Souls are big.
What do you imagine when I say big?
A soul’s much more than that.
Poets speak of mansions; mystics speak of infinite space between the lines of a good poem. I’m saying: it’s not that, either. A soul can house a planet. And the giant star round which it orbits. The spiraling tendrils of our Milky Way, tacky with enormous stars and icy comets burning through: a single soul can hold that, too.
It’s misleading to offer adjectives for tangible sizes and shapes, but we have to start somewhere. To go beyond everything you’ve ever known, we have to take a step in language, where you feel easy and confident and trusting.
I’ve seen you measured in your body; inches and feet on one continent, centimeters on another. Oceans of emotion lapping within shores of persona, dreams, identities, desires, strands of DNA, skin — eyes that open and close. The soul, bigger than your best guess, can funnel in and drive a single cell with as much enthusiasm as it drives the entire universe.
And here, still, I’m misleading you.
The naked noun is wicked misdirection. To imply there’s this thing we can distinguish from others like it —a “soul”— yours, mine, his—the soul of humanity, soul of the land—the very suggestion is just wrong.
One “soul” expresses itself through many personalities, timelines, projects and life experiences simultaneously. Physicists are right to say time’s not linear but spherical, happening all at once. For real: past plus present plus possible future = now.
There is no subtraction, only adding to a state of being, one infinite moment at a time.
A single soul may be simultaneously acting out the life a lost child in 1728, a 1950s has-been, a farmer in 2029, Wall Street thug in ’81, a continental pillager in 1221, Sumerian astronomer in BC 3019 and, well, of course: You.
If you could trespass souls the way I do, the cascading truth of what you are would catastrophically undo the fabric of assumptions holding you together.
Your brain’s not wired to process infinity.
A surge of timeless perception destroys the texture of this world so immediately, you won’t even have a chance to ride the thrill of perceiving the cosmic, orgasmic, bliss-tastic value each pulse of your vessels contributes to this grand scheme-less scheme. You’ll simply be ripped from the dream, destroyed in my wake.
And so I sneak through your seams in intimate silence — and when we meet in The LOOK, you never remember it. This is my kindness: you will instantly and irrevocably forget my hushed invasion of your soul.
* * *
As far as I know, I’m the only one with The LOOK—an ability that self-activated when a Dutch assassin snapped my bleak and meaningless life in two — because that’s exactly what I unknowingly hired him to do.
Seven years ago, when I was 27-going-on-nothing, he dragged me from the frozen grave I was digging, and crushed me painfully, then passionately, in the isolated elegance of dark Icelandic winter.
What happened that night pushed me through a door within a door and I said yes to what I became when I reemerged, unnamed, profoundly new.
I never look back, only forward.
Which is as it should be: once broken open, don’t endeavor to climb back inside the shell you were. Infants scream themselves awake because the womb is over.
That winter in Iceland was irrevocable rebellion. I changed my name on the flight home, filed the papers when I landed. Today, when we meet, you’ll call me Amie, as in mon amie, French for friend. We meet in mystery. We are huge beyond measure. And I belong to none of you.
Most people mistake Yang and Yin as opposites. Hot and cold; night and day; hard and receptive. Each sounds like the opposite end of a spectrum. But it’s more accurate to speak of Yin and Yang as complements. One doesn’t make sense without the other; they complete the spectrum and provide meaningful context for all of the in-betweens.
Yang is action. Yin is substance. In the beginning, when nothing else existed, Yang was the impulse to make something out of nothing and Yin was the something that longed to be made. Two halves of one whole, each lurking within the other. Activity without substance is pointless. Substance without activity is worthless. So the two existed within the one, which was the thought that brought them together.
Thinking makes it so.
The thought of activity within substance brings that substance to life. The thought of substance within action brings that action into context. Thought is the beginning and the end of everything that results.
How you think – the way your mind is wired – defines the story of your life. Not a little bit, but completely. Information flows in from outside your mind, but all of it is acted upon by your mind before you accept or reject it. Which is a roundabout way of saying that there is no actual outside influence on who you are or what you make of yourself in this life.
You collect the data; you reject the data; you interpret the data; you invent, seek out or refine the data. You tune it out; you dial it up. You are the source of all thinking that choreographs the way Yin and Yang transform into your experience.
This is true whether you’re consciously engaged or not. If you’re stressed out, suffering, apathetic, bored, frustrated or overwhelmed, you’re not yielding enlightened thought to your destiny. If you’re turned on, congruent, empowered or, at the very least, interested, then you’re consciously creating something worthwhile. You are the Big Bang.
There are so many jails: The jail of tedium and routine. The jail of a cubicle or teleconference or to-do-list. The jail of what they did to you seven years ago (it was truly awful). The jail of a big, relentless dream anchored to a painfully distant tomorrow. The jail of an alarm clock, punch clock, traffic cop. The jail of your body not collaborating with the lithe truth of your spirit. The jail of diets and therapy and resumes and your parents’ opinions on just about anything…READ ON, then set yourself free…
Laurie Perez for Rebelle Society
What you want
What you want is
newness that fits like a broken-in skin of golden potential, funded by the universe.
What you want is
to be a million bucks, hatching sunrise in a sky made of levity.
What you want is
realistic; even if you haven’t built a net flexible enough to catch that lighter-than-air truth as it lights on the unseen orchid, it belongs to you.
What you want is
to laugh more
to mean more
to have less to tend to
while you go about creating the substance of a most deserved uplift….
What you want
wants you back.
The trick is: not to need gut wrenching treks into Mordor as a means to activate your courage. Rather, give yourself permission to bypass strife then begin to spin up courage in response to the prolific potential of your innate creativity — and so set out to live adventurously in the smallest moments of each day, and build ramparts of love in every waking dream you decide to make real.
When we name a star
It shrivels to a bite-sized, luminous crumb
The swallowing of which, if we allow it,
Turns the universe inside out beneath our rib cage.
Know the star, not by name, but by ingesting it, terrified
Of what it will manifest in your blood: a kiss in public,
Long and lingering, unaware of any other eyes but those
Above the lips you touch with your own. A delay
On the drive to work becomes an omen you can read:
That red-tailed hawk circling, a guide you are
Compelled to follow toward that vision you had
A year ago, a decade ago, that person
You were going to be
When you grew up.
A single ray of light from a distant star falling upon the eye of a tyrant in bygone times may have altered the course of his life, may have changed the destiny of nations, may have transformed the surface of the globe, so intricate, so inconceivably complex are the processes in Nature.
In no way can we get such an overwhelming idea of the grandeur of Nature than when we consider, that in accordance with the law of the conservation of energy, throughout the Infinite, the forces are in a perfect balance, and hence the energy of a single thought may determine the motion of a universe.
― Nikola Tesla
Myth is fact our Ego cannot process in the context of our chosen, limited reality.
Costumed in lyrical disguises, mythic truths sneak past your mental guards, re-wire synapses crafted by genetically prescribed, mundane identity to start a party in the mind. You’ve got to let it in, the new information cloaked in mysteries of old: let it grow rowdy in the psyche, spur your expansion and make you bold, untamable, wild.
There’s a life to be lived here, and You are the sweet rebellion it’s been seeking throughout centuries of human confusion. Learn to see things differently.
Your myth begins right now.
We are not ruled by stars;
we are composed of their matter.
We’re not steered by the movement
of spheres; we are heavenly bodies
projecting meaning into space and time.
We’re not fated by gods and sprites and
stories penned by the ancients; we are
love in human form writing life upon the land.