Pisces Moon Active for Launch

Today meditation included imagining the conscious nature of my reality, and my consciousness, as separate from reality. Sliding it right out of the way as if it was a window pane allowed me to peak behind it, into a starry, dark matter-like place of moving blackness. And from there I could see how easily it is to pick one thread out of the aether and bring it into my consciousness, as simple as grabbing a thought that is mine.

I could also see how attachment to my consciousness causes me to play out all the dramas I’ve created in my own consciousness in an endless loop of interactions that I’d deemed “real”. Never-ending, these dramas can go on forever if I so choose. But I can also choose for them to end. The less attachment I have to them, the easier they are to slip right off like glasses that color my world.

And what’s beyond? I cannot “see”. But I can sense that there is the realm of true creation. Of calling in whatever I want to play with in the moment. There is the realm of no attached identity, but rather an endless playroom where I can send my thoughts to interact with something there, whatever that may be. Right now it’s this blog, because it felt fun to pull words.

Let’s try some pulling.

Purple thread. She stood on a mountain palace, dress glittering with a thousand gems. A fierce wind blows her about, but her footing is sure as she peers out over the cliffs before her, into the dark valley below. A storm brews on the horizon, dark and menacing. Her thoughts turn to within the palace. She’s searching for something here, and playing with the edge of finding it, right now it simultaneously exists as lost and found. She tries to avoid looking for it in her mind, yet her mind returns there over and over again. He is lost. No he isn’t. He is lost, he never existed. Lightning flashes as the wind howls through her dress and long dark blonde hair. She’s been here before, she realizes, uncomfortable with deja vu. “And you’ll be here again" the wind whispers, sealing the bond as her element of communication.

“Enough” she thinks. She’s already lost trust in her mind.

She must now trust her body to guide her.

Orange thread. New York, cars honking. Shimmering lights. A thousand people on a street. Noise. A cat scurries through an alley. Bob Dylan plays in a courtyard. Someone smiles at their own greed. Dollars are stuffed beneath a mattress. A prayer is said for rain.

Yellow thread. Monk sits on a mountaintop. His shoes are kicked off by his side. He watches a waterfall, his orange robes waving in the wind. He wonders at a life he will never live, and simultaneously lets go of his wondering as soon as it has come. He is the wind. He is the stone. He is the water. He is none and all. He doesn’t need any answers. He doesn’t have any questions. There is just what is.