One Love Poem

Seeing you
Seeing you seeing me

Seeing
with my real eyes and
with your eyes
I realize
The Infinite pouring through
in space-time sublime

I’m drinking in oceans
whole —
your breaths, your warmth, your heartbeat, your soul

In and out
the tides flow
and I lose self as
everything resonates
and cadence is constant;
when All Aspects Resonate

I Am The Constant

—

Godself found
not in seeking (in the yours or the mine)
but in seeing the
Being
One Mind so entwined.

Oil Pastel on Paper 11X18”

Jesus Christ in a Navajo Man and a White Woman

Yesterday at the Moonflower Community Market, a late 50’s-early 60’s age man, with long hair tied back into a ponytail and dirty from a days’s work with his hands, walked into the store. Wandering about, he struck me as unusual as compared with the typical clientele, but I thought nothing of it.
He had a twinkle in his eyes as he approached me after some time. He introduced himself as “Ernest.”

“This place is great. I love that you are here. I didn’t know you were here...”

We had a brief, eye-piercing, completely connected feeling conversation, using fewer words and more body language, as he beamingly expressed his gratitude and I most delightedly mine.

He told me he was Navajo (Inui?), born and raised in the Four Corners. He lovingly called me “White Girl,” and said that he would come back some rime when he was in town. We embraced hands, then hugged, and then he left.

—-

Some hours later, Ernest walked back into the store.

I paused the conversation I was having with a well put together woman with kind eyes. He looked at me and said, “I don’t know why I’m back,” he began, “I just wanted to see you again.”

I looked in his eyes and again saw the Great Infinite, and was overcome with inexplicable and effusive joy, a lightness of being without comparison, the only physical correlate being my eyes welling with tears.

“Ernest, welcome back. You are always welcome here.”

“I don’t know why I’m back...”

“You are always welcome here...”

Our hands reached out and connected with a long embrace, as we honored One Another once again.

The woman who I had been helping check out had been waiting perfectly patiently, and she and I met eyes again.

“This is so special. Wow. So incredibly special,” she said, shaking her head seemingly in disbelief, eyes ablaze with the same fire I felt within.

“I know, thank you,” I replied.

“Thank you for letting me share in this experience with you,” she said. Here eyes were shining.

The vision went blurry as tears commenced to flood the eye plane, and I choked up.

“I hope you have a happy holiday,” she began, “but I don’t need to say it, it looks like you already...”

—

Attempting to describe this connection yesterday is like seeing a rainbow bowing down over a seemingly limitless desert plain, smelling the crisp air and breathing deeply, and then trying to capture the experience by drawing it with a black graphite pencil.

Woefully insufficient.

Words, like pen, like paint, like any countably large collection of tools available to humanity, are so insufficient to describe the ineffable Infinite Love of the Great Reality. Humbled, i stop here.

Last night, I died

Last night, I died.

—-

I was lighting candles in an unremarkable space in time, and noticed myself doused in a pleasantly fragrant oil — just absolutely drenched in oil. In the next moment, I somehow accidentally touched myself with the flame and was instantly, most violently ablaze. No pain, just a buzzing sensation, like that of an electrical charge. Then my sensory field felt an incredible implosion, an unbearable physical tension and collapse into a dense, small focal point deep within — which was followed by an immediate expansion without, and dissolution into an infinite light.

In a fraction of second, the lens of this mind-body complex simply ceased to exist. The physical sensation of instantaneous, imploding disembodiment was pronounced, profound, and indescribable — not unlike the whiteness of non-being which followed it. 

All that was left after my lighting of a candle flame was the non-localized Awareness of Light. 

From this nondescript, non-space in no-time, a decision was made to awaken the sleeping mind-body. I woke up with, “Holy shit, I just died.”

—-

On Dreams Awakening a Dreamer: II

Last night, I died.

—-

I was lighting candles in an unremarkable space in time, and noticed myself doused in a pleasantly fragrant oil — just absolutely drenched in oil. In the next moment, I somehow accidentally touched myself with the flame and was instantly, most violently ablaze. No pain, just a buzzing sensation, like that of an electrical charge. Then my sensory field felt an incredible implosion, an unbearable physical tension and collapse into a dense, small focal point deep within — which was followed by an immediate expansion without, and dissolution into an infinite light.

In a fraction of second, the lens of this mind-body complex simply ceased to exist. The physical sensation of instantaneous, imploding disembodiment was pronounced, profound, and indescribable — not unlike the whiteness of non-being which followed it. 

All that was left after my lighting of a candle flame was the non-localized Awareness of Light. 

From this nondescript, non-space in no-time, a decision was made to awaken the sleeping mind-body. I woke up with, “Holy shit, I just died.”

On breaking through on DMT, breaking the laws of physics, and such

The last time I “broke through” on N, N Dimethylthriptamine (DMT), it pierced the illusory veil of consensus reality irrevocably, though I did not, and could not, understand what had happened at the time. Today, given other sober revelatory experiences — like witnessing the laws of physics inexplicably broken at the height of my logical positivism — I can finally communicate not only what was experienced, but the knowledge gained through these revelations.

Three years ago, I smoked a water pipe loaded with DMT and moved to lay down in bed, alone in my room. 

BAM. No sooner had I reclined than I was gone. There was no Dana. There was no magical medley of flashing lights en route, no colorful kaleidoscope of geometries, no other-dimensional beings to welcome me as I passed from this world; there was no “I” to pass through the tunnel or to be greeted on the other side or to experience anything at all. I was completely gone; I ceased to exist. And there was NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.

BLACKNESS — the void — emanated in every direction and from every direction.

“I AM GOD,” was the ever-pervading message — not spoken or heard, but KNOWN.

In the Ultimate Reality that was revealed to me, there was no self. There was only the overwhelming no-thingness of God.

This realm, versus that of human ideation, thoughts and words, was akin to the direct experience of a rainbow in the Moab Desert versus seeing a painted rendition of one in black and white and on watercolor paper — the magnitude of information lost to the human mind’s experience indescribable.

As the self re-constituted and I “came down” from the DMT, I experienced a menageries of thoughts and feelings:

What the fuck? Was THAT god!? AM I god?!

<does not compute>

Where were the lights and fairies? Why didn’t I get to see the alien creatures or angels? Why didn’t I receive some great revelatory knowledge pertinent to my life struggles and experience? What the fuck?

I GOT GYPPED!

Clearly, having read The Spirit Molecule by Dr. Rick Strassman MD had created some expectations, giving me a framework for the categories of DMT experience I might encounter.

There was no framework for this experience.

—

A decade earlier, in the early summer of 2008, the Wall Street market crash, releasing me from the self-selected torture of Investment Banking, and revealing the self-imprisonment of alcoholism that had developed, flourished, and over-bloomed in my three short years living in Manhattan. Having just completed two undergraduate degrees from an Ivy League University (including one with Honors in a hard science), and following the two-year Investment Banking stint, I was the ultimate atheist-agnostic —  a super-logician and logical positivist extraordinaire. Yet, despite the strength of my power of will, unusual degree of self-awareness and self-knowledge, and beyond all the academic knowledge gained from years’ research in the neuroscience of addiction, I could not get myself sober from alcohol or stay sober. I needed a change: I’m going to live on a beach and do yoga and eat raw foods everyday and paint and dance and heal and figure this shit out. I moved into a small bungalow near the beach in Delray Beach, Florida.

One night in October 2008, I was having a lively discussion about the nature of god with a sober friend.

As I listened seemingly patiently to this person’s understanding of a “Higher Power,” I found myself feeling frustrated and impatient. There was no such thing as god, obviously. And I was tiring of listening to someone else entertain illogical thoughts.

As we conversed, there was a Discovery-channel-esque special on the nature of The Universe playing on large flat screen television in front of us. What Higher Power could one possibly need other than Science, or The Universe? Wasn’t the scientific exploration of consensus reality sufficient? Why do people persist in making shit up unnecessarily? Occam’s Razor, anyone?

When it was my turn to expound upon my conceptualization of a Higher Power —  the virtues of Science Proper in studying the reality of The Universe — looking in the direction of the television, which was now showing beautiful shots of supernovae and galaxies, I gestured forcefully:  “THIS —“

The cup sitting between us slid sharply across the table.

I didn’t get to finish my sentence ("... is MY god"). The fucking cup moved.

The fucking cup moved.

I sat still, seemingly suspended in time, dumbfounded and in complete disbelief.

Dana, did you move the cup?

<does not compute>

No. Stephanie, did you move the cup?

No.

My small brain broke; my little logical mind dissipated. Suddenly, I found myself spewing nonsense, making shit up I didn’t believe myself to explain the inexplicable — “The house is haunted! Oh my god, there’s a ghost in the house!”

I freaked out. She freaked out. We both ran out of the house. 

There was no framework for this experience.

—

It hasn’t been until most recently that I’ve been able to reconcile revelations such as these in any cohesive way, or to come to a point of willingness to share any of this with others. The incredible is by definition just that — the unbelievable. And the scientist in me still stands silent in the face of such mystical experiences, feeling slightly embarrassed, completely fascinated, and in awe, all at the same time.

But these mystical experiences must have come through the lens of a militant logician for some reason, no? For otherwise they would not have been experienced at all, no? Reality just IS, regardless of whatever explanation we may provide for its beingness, no?

—

Okay, so how does this all synthesize?

Thank you for being patient with me here, as I attend to the practical realities of consensus reality for the day. I just wanted to get some preliminary notes out there before I keep writing. I appreciate your taking the time to read this missive, and appreciate your comments and feedback in private or posted as well.

Cheers, my fellow earth-bound traveler ;)

On losing one’s mind | dreams awakening a dreamer

Last night, I was flying, as is typical of me in the sleeping state, soaring effortlessly over seemingly neverending landscapes. I had been flying like this for years, on landscapes like this for years — prior to having ever experienced the sensation of paragliding, and prior to experiencing the beingness of such vast physical spaces in waking life. 

What was different, however, and what has been different most recently, is that there are no psychotropic substances of any kind involved (I.e., legally prescribed, herbal or pharmaceutical, whatever kind whatsoever).

I looked down at a overly developed, well-chiseled calf muscle, covered completely in curly, coarse blond leg hair. A man’s large, solid hands ran their fingers through this golden tuft, and I felt its texture while marveling in how the sun’s rays glistened through it; the pure masculine, beautiful.

The message that’s been becoming self-evident in the last years hit yet again: 

This apparent reality isn’t real. This is all a dream — during sleeping, during waking — we are dreaming.

I am witnessing the apparent experiences of a mind-body. Yet, I am not this body. I am not these sensations. I am not these emotions nor these thoughts, nor the feeling nor the ideation. I am not this mind. 

—

The individual mind continuously attempts to claim such experiences as its own, creating a “me,” “my,” “I,” — a self — in the process.

What is this “I,” this “me,” this “my” that keeps getting referred to in light of the sensory experience, in light of the emotional experience and/or intellectual process? 

The self is only very loosely tied to the mind-body from which it arises and to which it refers. Thus, whatever this self may be, whatever this self-created self-referential seemingly infinite loop may be, it can’t be real. It seems to be real, it is seemingly real — but it can not ultimately be real. (Aside: is there any cross-reference here to Hofstadter’s I am a Strange Loop, still unread, but on the reading list?)

What is real, is that there is a witnessing independent of whatever mind-body from which it seemingly arises, and to which mind-body it seemingly refers.

I am not the sensing, the feeling, the ideation of the mind-body.

I am the witnessing to the sensing and feeling and ideation — I am the thatness which bears witness to sensations, emotions, thoughts.

—

Losing one’s mind reveals One Mind. 

On Being Fucked: self equals suffering.

Alcoholic Dana, Intellectual Dana, Yogi Dana are all equally enslaved. Each is fucked the same, though in its own particular way. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.

What I didn’t realize when I first got sober in 2008 was that Dana’s reinvention of herself as a spiritual seeker (“artist in recovery“) was logically no different than Dana as scientist, as philosopher, as world traveler, investment banker, femme assasin, yogi, adventure enthusiast, intellectual, mountain climber, blah blah blah, or whatever... or any other “version of self.”

To be sure, some of these versions of self may be more socially acceptable or desirable (e.g., scientist, spiritualist, logician) and/or healthier to their body vessel (e.g., yogi, rock climber), while others less so (e.g., alcoholic, femme fatale) — but in constitution they are all equal — all equally descriptive of the “bondage of self.”

Not convinced? Try getting out of the self through spiritual practice, psychedelics, service work, play, sex, drugs, rock and roll... What is this thing trying to get out of itself? What is this thing that is trying to free itself? What is this fucking “self”?

Today, the message is clear: All “self” is suffering. And seeking Higher Self or spirituality is still samsara.

Stop. 

Know what you are by seeing what you’re not. The infinite needs no definition. Welcome to no self.

Nightmares and the no self

Bad dreams are a learning mechanism, teaching that I am not the body, I am not the feelings, I am not the thoughts passing through the mindscape.

I awoke this morning a little after 5, still in darkness. I was acutely aware of the perceptions of heaviness in my chest, squeezing in my throat, and quicker-than-typical heart rate. The nightmarish state experienced within last night’s dreams seemed to be persisting into wakefulness, shrouding an otherwise beautiful early morning with a cover of damp, dark haze; there was powerlessness, there was fear, there was sadness.

These are not my feelings.

Nothing had happened to me. In reality, I knew I was surrounded by Love, safe and secure.

Why was I wearing this physiological state?

The incongruence was jarring. The realization hit hard and completely.

These are not my feelings.

Eschewing the brain-body container relieves me of the bondage of this experience. Observing the experience with lovingkind detachment is the transcendence of the human condition.

I always safe and I am always secure.  I am nothing but the unadulterated awareness of these foreign installments floating in the great sea of consciousness.

This is the true Self — the no self.

Deconstructing and Remembering

I am the space between breaths, the timelessness of no thoughts, a sea of serenity, the eye of the maelstrom;
I am the summer desert hailstorm.

I am the fledging hawk flying for its very first time, guided by the unseen hand of its Creatrix and Creator.

I am the mirroring rainbow, bowing down and inverting upon itself, doubling indigo over a violet core.

I am all colors lit unto themselves and onto a single focal point.

I am the perfect equation being solved for some (x, y, z) in space-time.

I am high beyond conception, the mind-body sober —

I am nothing, as I am everything.

Awakening Again

It was weeks ago the realization hit: “Dana,” in and of themself, is nothing. No matter what the intellect, how talented the mind-body vehicle, how accomplished the “self” — it is ultimately meaningless until and unless guided by Divine Creative Intelligence.

Here is the submission: I ask that every thought that arises be of Divine origin; I ask that no thoughts arise that are not of the Highest, Greatest, Good. I ask that every iota of this mind-brain-body vehicle be corrected for, and filled overflowingly, with perfect Love.

There is no fear, no selfishness, no dishonesty, no resentment, no other expressions of ego here — for there is no lack of Love in this position.

This must be remembered in every seemingly contiguous moment of “now.”

To realize this was not to gain something, but to lose something — to deconstruct the self that Dana had created by removing ego-mind (“forgetting”) — thus allowing the everpresent, evertrue, Higher Self to shine (“remembering”).