When I sit down to 'meditate' and become aware of my breathing, thoughts arise, transformed into a flock of doves. They fly, and some, just some, come to perch on me. With their stories, their longings, their fears, their gossip, their desires for revenge and justice, their illusions, their works to be created, their wishes. Some don't even know what they want, but they want to be a dove and be seen. Then I throw them millet seeds of intentions, and they all rush to eat. In that fluttering, I open up the space and look for the seagulls, their cries more distant near the sea, and I open up more spaces to where the hawks seek their prey. And I open and open and open. Now the doves fly their ritual away from me, and a hawk begins its dive. I leave them there to follow their avatars.
Then I attend to the butterflies within me, butterflies and different little creatures that swarm through the inner galleries of my being. Doing it. Being it. And then I am body in all its intensity; not a thought-out body, no, a body felt, thrilled by its own feeling. Seed beating. Infinite probabilities without any purpose. Heartbeats, vibrations, flows, temperatures. Solidities, liquidities, energies, voids. Properties without adjectives. Infinite interconnections that we will never be able to explore in their entirety.
I hear from afar the dry thud of the hawk on a dove. Inside me. The butterflies flutter in fright. The feathers fall swaying between the sea breeze, and as the claws hold the bundle, a drop of blood plummets and warms the sea. Many in the liquid already feel the waves of the impact, others the smell. And they move. Seawardly. And I can feel terror and joy in a single instant. In a single gesture. And that instant sustains me in the roaring of life. Seawardly.
A butterfly has landed between my eyebrows, inside my skull, and activates the sweetest of all sensations, transporting me to a new space, until recently unknown to my being. The rest fly out through the lowest exit. Exhaling with their fluttering all the airs of the body's breaths. It is not an owl. Although the process may seem like it, nothing could be more different. I feel the excited beating of the hawk's heart and the decadent warmth of the dove's absence, now just food. All its loves, its flights, its dreams, swallowed into another being. Transmuting consciousnesses. Then the silence, that space, the unnameable.
Until again the doves return gracefully to me. I too return to them. The drop of blood already dissolved in the sea awaits the arrival of the feathers - each thing takes its time cooked to it; and each time takes cooked many times, according to the state of things. New consciousnesses, bacteria that attract each other from here and there, yearning to create new forms to fill with consciousness. I open my eyes and observe in amazement the invisible crystal that separates the two worlds. And at times there is not even separation, the world is so inside me and I so inside the world. As in an indrawable Moebius sphere. That is why, because of that form of presence, every dawn I offer myself seawardly to the doves. Willing to be. Open to the hawk piercing me, but always a flock of doves. One and all. Alive and dead. Air and feather, blood and sea.
Before, I would wake up from dreams and go straight to wakefulness. And even if one and the other had been cool, it created a rupture of the world that separated me from everything. There was no logic that smoothly fused the worlds. Body and mind. Dream and wakefulness. Now I think I lived like a madman, dreaming strange things awake and living strange awakenings while dreaming. Although it is true that many times life, on its own, mixed everything up to keep me somehow sane. I would say on the tightrope. How much tension, how much suffering that tightrope entails. It seems to me that this is the situation of humanity now. On the tightrope. Separated each from himself and then from the world. Trying to fix it only with screws. As if the screws in the dream had somewhere to screw into. And if there is anything as obvious as that we are life and death, it is that we are wakefulness and dream. That is how life made it. And I emphasize, there is no life without dream. And dreams are life.
Then there is a time without consciousness. Beyond the dream. It is to that time alone that we must pay respect and surrender to it with the best possible will and benevolence. And the solutions will come, even if they are in the form of a hawk. No one will ever feel freer and more inspired than a drop of blood falling into the sea. Released from everything. What was, what is, and what will be. Everything, in an instant hanging in the sea breeze on the way to the sea, carrying the entire universe and beyond. Knowing with absolute clarity that it is only a vehicle for what the unnameable wants to express. Like you and like me. Seawardly.