author’s note: I repost this one to honor an experience that happened 39 years ago today. The experience continues to inform my spiritual awareness.
Chapter 9-22: Language Either Mirrors Love, or Obstructs It: June 22, 1987 and Related Teaching
Friends often remark that I have built a life of my own design—a path less traveled, winding through wild terrain rather than following the paved road. It is not a life defined by acclaim or tidy resolutions, but a composition of change and quiet growth, assembled in its own imperfect yet meaningful way. This chapter will eventually focus on an extraordinary year—1987—when I first encountered humanity’s, and my own, profound capacity for healing. Drawing from memory, I feel compelled to trace a record of unrefined experiences, hard-won lessons, and a few luminous revelations, all gathered around that single, pivotal year.
To convey the significance of that time, I will return to my past and examine a few telling fragments from the years before the awakening. My aim is not a polished account softened by hindsight, but an honest, unguarded reflection—one that acknowledges the sharp turns and deep valleys of a life often lived without skill or awareness.
The Era Before Awakening
When my social circle finally widened, it filled with those the world had largely overlooked: the outcasts, the dreamers, the rebels, the misunderstood. Few in number, they became my first teachers in loyalty and acceptance. They showed me that worth is not always visible at a glance.
Books became my refuge, particularly the boundless worlds of science fiction. In the pages of distant places, I found a comfort this world could not offer. Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land proved especially formative. Its protagonist, Michael Valentine Smith—an infant survivor of a failed Mars mission, raised by Martians—arrives at a profound realization: “Thou art God.”
This idea planted a quiet, subversive seed in me. It suggested that perhaps life—and even I, in my brokenness—might hold a measure of the divine. It became an anchor as I made my way through the difficult years of early life.
Adolescence marked a turning point, though it turned toward darkness. By fifteen, I had fallen into the grip of drugs and alcohol. These substances offered a deceptive comfort, a chemical numbing against intense anxiety, loneliness, and the persistent ache of self-doubt. They promised relief but delivered only distance. As a child, I had often longed, in my own words,
“to just get off of this rock.”
I dreamed of escape—as an astronaut, an alien abductee, or through some impossible breach of reality. I wanted to break through the surface of this flawed world and step into something purer.
Despite the turmoil within, I maintained an outward appearance of academic success, hoping achievement might rescue me from my discontent. I excelled on standardized tests, earned scholarships from the University of Portland, the Oregon Scholarship Commission, and the U.S. Air Force, and secured a place in the Air Force ROTC program. But the foundation was unstable. A broken relationship—mirroring the turbulence within me—undid everything. The collapse was complete. I abandoned my ambitions of reaching the stars and returned to a hard, unforgiving reality. Pharmaceutical treatment held my mentally ill wife together long enough for us to marry on September 17, 1979. Eight months later, those supports failed, and she was institutionalized at the Oregon State Hospital, formerly known as Dammasch State Hospital until 1995.
The Grammar of Separation
My internal landscape during this descent carried a peculiar linguistic fracture, and it matters more than it might first appear. We tend to assume our inner monologue is mere commentary, a passive ticker tape of thought. But the language we use within the quiet chambers of our skulls does not merely describe reality—it constructs it. And I had built a reality of fragmentation through the grammar of my own existence.
I rarely spoke to myself as “I.” Instead, a relentless, critical narrator described my life in the third person.
He needs to stop.
He is a failure.
He is dying.
This was not eccentricity; it was alienation. By referring to myself as an object—a “he” rather than an “I”—I created a safe, critical distance from the raw vulnerability of being alive. I had severed the spiritual tendon binding soul to body, watching my life from the shore as the ship carrying much of my essence drifted away.
Even as I spiraled, a part of me—perhaps that seed Heinlein planted—searched for meaning. My relationship with American Christianity was rocky terrain of jagged peaks and deep valleys. I had attended Sunday school but found its teachings irrelevant and incomplete. Its core premise of humanity’s inherent sinfulness never resonated with my soul’s ancient longing for unity. Each time I cobbled together a few weeks of sobriety—which happened perhaps four times across sixteen years of addiction—I returned to Christianity, hoping to find the missing piece. Each encounter left me spiritually malnourished, chewing dry dogma when I craved living water.
I found my living water in 1987.
The Climb to Larch Mountain
I wanted more.
On June 22, 1987, driven by an instinct I could not name, I made a pilgrimage to Larch Mountain. This sacred peak, steeped in indigenous reverence and the ghosts of my ancestors, stands sentinel over the Columbia River valley, offering cathedral-like views of the Pacific Northwest’s volcanic giants: Rainier, Adams, St. Helens, Hood, and Jefferson. I had been sober three months, but the deep wounds of addiction—neurological damage, mental distress, a trembling body—lingered like smoke after a fire.
I climbed over the observation deck’s guardrail, searching for a hidden spot away from the world where I could connect with the spirit of the landscape. I let the beauty wash over me, the light breeze carrying the scent of countless pines like a cleansing ritual. Then I turned inward, attempting the nearly impossible task of silencing the constant chatter. The critical voices that had narrated my life in the detached third person for years responded at first with their usual noise, but in that peaceful place, they slowly and mysteriously faded away.
Then something extraordinary unfolded.
For the first time in my life, the boundaries dissolved. I felt myself physically melting into the natural world. The agonizing separation I had always known—from life, from others, from God—began to vanish like mist in morning sun. Suddenly everything—myself, the granite beneath me, the rushing river below, the endless sky—was one continuous, unbroken field of existence. An ineffable warmth flowed through my veins, richer and more intimate than anything I had ever known. It quelled the mental noise and filled the silence with unmistakable clarity.
Then came the voice. Not the detached, accusing commentary of my inner turmoil, the one that used “he” to belittle. This was a calm declaration rising from the bedrock of consciousness, using the third person one final time to tell me I had touched something far beyond my history and my narrow understanding of human possibility:
“He is having an experience with God.”
These words were not spoken aloud, yet they resonated in the marrow of my bones as undeniable truth. And with that utterance, the stubborn third-person perspective that had plagued my descent into chemical madness vanished. The “he” of my ego, the “he” of my dissociation, was replaced—one final time—by the “He” of the Spirit.
The veil lifted. The tremors ceased. The voices fell silent. Hands that had shaken so violently I could not hold a spoon became steady. The mountains were no longer distant scenery; they were extensions of my own body. The river did not wind away from me; it flowed through me.
Peace enveloped me completely.
This wasn’t about normal seeing or thinking, but about experiencing life in a new way, grounded in the very core of existence itself. The artificial boundaries of “self” and “other” dissolved, and I saw with startling clarity that all of humanity was my family—each person a thread in the great tapestry into which I, too, was woven. Love, which had always felt conditional and transactional, now radiated freely. It extended even to those who had wronged me, those I believed I could never forgive. It was as if God had handed me a lens of boundless compassion and asked me to look through it.
That vision later translated into a teaching, one that few could immediately grasp:
“All that I see, and will ever see, unto eternity, is myself”.
In those timeless moments, I brushed against eternity. It was apocalyptic in the purest sense—an unveiling—and for a fleeting instant I imagined Jesus himself stepping into my mind, pushing aside the old Bruce and replacing him with something far beyond human experience. That stubborn theology training of mine almost managed to pin a name and its familiar ideas onto what was a unique and conceptually naked, indescribable experience.
The Return to the Valley
As days became weeks, then months, then years, one realization grew unmistakable: I had been remade. All my theology and religious training finally began to make sense. In the Old Testament, God’s name is “I Am.” Jesus said, “Before Abraham was, I am.” The same is true for us once we shed the illusions of self. Jesus was not the distant deity religion had painted, but an enlightened sibling—a prototype for what every human being could become. The “I am that I am” he had embodied now manifested in my consciousness as well.
I no longer needed to travel to the underworld to find truth. I no longer needed to beg someone to listen. A single question would guide me for years to come:
Where are my people?
I drove toward Portland and, pulled by an invisible thread, went straight to the NE Glisan office of the U.S. Postal Service’s Employee Assistance Program. I had worked at the Postal Service from 1975 through 1985, and their EAP was well aware of my chemically distracted nature and the poor work attendance that resulted from it. Mike and Larry had both accompanied me to AA meetings in 1981 and again in 1984—requirements if I wanted to keep my job. After yet another relapse, I called in sick the day after the Fourth of July in 1985 and never returned to work, never even called to tell them my intentions. I had left in shame, a ghost of an employee. Now I walked through the door and greeted Larry and Mike by name. Neither recognized me—the husk of the man they knew was gone. When I told them my name, they were stunned. Mike said I was simply radiant. I told them, matter-of-factly, that I was having a spiritual experience. They embraced me, acknowledging the miracle standing in their office.
I then visited the Personnel Department of the Main Post Office in downtown Portland, where Eleanor Workman acknowledged that I may have been fired inappropriately and offered to help me reapply for my old position.
“No thank you, Eleanor,” I said gently. “I just wanted to apologize for working here so unhappily for so many years.”
I then asked for and received a meeting with John Zimpleman, the head of Plant Maintenance, to atone for my poor performance from 1980 to 1985, when I worked as an electrician and electronic technician trainee. He listened, deeply moved, and confessed he wished his own son could find what I had found.
Two days later, searching for a book at the world-famous Powell’s Books, I encountered my former psychiatrist, Dr. Dan Beavers, in the metaphysical section. He did not recognize me until I spoke my name.
“Bruce, this can’t be you,” he stammered. “Last time I saw you, I was wondering how much longer you could survive if the medication didn’t turn your life around.”
“Dan, the medication worked fine,” I replied. “I just never used it the way you intended. I found a new way to live—without medication, drugs, or alcohol. I accept full responsibility now for my thoughts, my feelings, my behavior. The schism in my mind appears to have healed.”
“Bruce,” he said, “that is the outcome I want for every patient. Congratulations.”
I drove up to my ex-wife’s home near Camas, Washington, and made further amends—an amazing exchange I will cover in depth later in the book.
That August, still searching for where I belonged, I went to the International New Thought Alliance Conference in Portland. I was mainly drawn to hear Jack Boland, the renowned recovering alcoholic and new thought leader behind the tape series *12 Steps to a Spiritual Experience*, which I had listened to before my healing vision on May 24th.
But I found so much more—hearing several globally recognized thought leaders, including the captivating Barbara Marx Hubbard, who completely held my attention. I saw over a thousand people embrace the musical group Alliance, who were four gay men, each living with HIV/AIDS, led by Jerry Florence. Having just left a church where gay people were openly condemned, this radical acceptance felt like oxygen to someone drowning. The tenderness I experienced that day still lives in me. Even now, I weep for everyone deemed unworthy or ignored—those reduced to “they” and “them” by a society forever afraid of “we.”
Navigating the New Self
I would be lying if I claimed full awareness of where I was headed. Only in the rearview mirror does a rational narrative emerge. In the spring and summer of 1987, I was a novice on the path of transformation, completely open and almost entirely without a map. Beginning that April, I built a rigorous meditation practice and set committed relationships aside to deepen my focus. When I began working the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous in May—prayer and meditation foremost among them—I created the conditions for a more peaceful mind.
After the contact of June 22nd, my old life began to evaporate. I could still describe the world I had left, but I had no language for the world I was entering. Somehow, that spiritual insight had released the controls of my wounded ego. A new order revealed itself moment to moment. At times I felt like a guided missile—never knowing the destination, but trusting that whatever had launched this new life would carry me to the right place at the right time.
Before 1987, my mind had been a crowded room filled with other people’s ideas about me and my own miscreations. I was addicted to the duality of perception that breeds endless background noise—the cacophony of “yous,” “theys,” and “hims.” By June, that committee had permanently adjourned. There was only one peaceful presence, one new ordering principle: the I Am.
The small story I began to tell did not always meet a friendly reception. When I shared my experience, I was met with silent stares, abrupt subject changes, suggestions to attend more religious training classes to get in better alignment with established dogma, or simple disinterest. My family still viewed me through the lens of the past; my history had scarred their psyches. Yet they could see that the new me no longer required their worry. I was independent, upright, conscious. I made healthy choices and chose a fulfilling life to replace the wreckage. I was a boy again and learning the ropes, meeting friends, while sipping from inner healing springs.
For two years—from that June on the mountain until I met my wife Sharon in the July of 1989 at A Course In Miracles discussion group meeting—I spent more than six hours a day in prayer and meditation, taught on inner planes about an awareness and energy that I had been exiled from my entire life. This was not a Christian God or a Jewish God or the Buddha Mind—but those names all pointed toward the energy that I had accessed.
Slowly, the new life sent me back into the old world to live it rather than escape it. I was able to reengineer my egoic existence, so as to more accurately reflect the new energy that I had made conscious contact with and had been transformed by. I began a new career as a union electrical construction worker in 1988. I made hundreds of new acquaintances and engaged in several forms of community building through our local Empowerment Community, a network created by Michael and Diane Sutton in the early 1990’s. I hiked and ran the wilderness trails of Oregon, Washington, Utah, California, and even Peru. I cycled tens of thousands of miles. I ran several ultramarathons across thirty-one miles of Oregon and won them, this trembling body that had once shaken too violently to hold a spoon. I was granted, in the plainest terms, a redo—permitted at last to love my existence and learn from my life instead of hating myself for it.
The Grammar of Existence: A Complete Teaching
What Larch Mountain gave me, in the end, was language—not for the light itself, but for the architecture of separation that keeps us from it. I have no wish to describe the light as the mystics and poets do; that path of via positiva was not mine to undertake. My path was via negativa and via transformativa—the way that opens only after the debris field of human consciousness has been perceived, healed, and cleared.
And yet I must begin with a warning drawn from the very heart of that day, for it is the seed from which this entire teaching grows. When the boundaries dissolved and the voices fell silent, a vision arrived and translated itself into a teaching few could immediately grasp:
All that I see, and will ever see, unto eternity, is myself.
In those timeless moments, I brushed against eternity. It was apocalyptic in the purest sense—an unveiling—and for a fleeting instant I imagined Jesus himself stepping into my mind, pushing aside the old Bruce and replacing him with something far beyond human experience. But notice what happened next, for this is the crux of everything that follows: that stubborn theology training of mine almost managed to pin a name and its familiar ideas onto what was a unique and conceptually naked, indescribable experience.
This is the original temptation, and it is a temptation of grammar. The experience arrived without a vocabulary—conceptually naked, unmediated, free of category. And my conditioned mind rushed in immediately to clothe it, to file it under a known name, to translate “all that I see is myself” back into the borrowed pronouns of an inherited religion. The unveiling revealed a reality with no “other” in it—a continuous, unbroken field in which the he and the they had no place to stand. Yet the moment I tried to speak of it, the old language reached for its old walls.
So understand this before we go further: the teaching about language is not a clever metaphor laid over a spiritual event. It is the spiritual event, examined in slow motion. The vision showed me a world without separation; my grammar tried to rebuild the separation the very next instant. Everything that follows is the discipline of catching that reflex—of learning to keep the experience naked rather than dressing it in the pronouns of exile.
Here, then, is the teaching at the heart of June 22, 1987.
The words we use are not neutral tools. They are the architects of our isolation or our union. Perception builds reality, and the pronouns we choose—the I‘s, the you‘s, the they‘s—are the bricks with which we construct either bridges to one another or walls that guarantee our exile.
Before we go further, one crucial distinction must be drawn—the kind a careless eye will miss. The same pronoun can perform two entirely different kinds of work.
There is the pronoun turned inward: the grammar of self-talk, where you or he or she becomes a name I give my own self in the privacy of my mind. And there is the pronoun turned outward, where he, she, and they point to other living beings—distinct biological identities who breathe and suffer beyond the borders of my skin.
These two uses are easily confused, yet they wound us differently. The first is a fracture within the self. The second is a severance between selves. To heal the grammar of existence, we must first learn to tell them apart.
Let us begin with the pronoun turned outward.
Consider the third person used of others—they, them, he, she—when these words name actual people. This is the language of the observer. It places its subject at a distance, and applied to other human beings, it often reduces living people to stick figures, fleshed out only by our opinions or our ignorance:
They need to fix this.
He is difficult.
It is a linguistic push, a subtle dissociation that keeps the speaker safely on the sidelines while everyone else plays out the great mystery of life. The danger is not that the pronoun is grammatically wrong—another person is, of course, biologically a he or a she. The danger is that the distancing pronoun lets me substitute my projection for the actual person. The he I condemn is rarely the man himself; he is the caricature I have built in his place. I mistake my map of him for the territory of who he truly is. This is precisely the reflex I watched in myself on the mountain—the rush to clothe a naked reality in a name—turned now upon other people instead of upon God.
Now turn that same third person inward, against the self—
She needs to do better.
He always messes this up.
—and it becomes something darker: an alienation from one’s own soul, a way of viewing oneself as an object to be critiqued rather than a subject to be inhabited. Here there is no other person at all. There is only me, split from myself, narrating my own life as though I were a stranger watching from across the room. I know this intimately. I lived inside that he for sixteen years.
The self-referential second person—you—is more intimate, but still divided.
You can do this.
Why did you say that?
This, too, is the pronoun turned inward. Note the difference carefully: it is not the you I address to another person standing before me, but the you I aim at myself. It splits the self in two—actor and critic, coach and player. Occasionally useful for motivation, a steady diet of this inward you nonetheless presupposes a fracture in the psyche. To refuse the I is to refuse full ownership of our experience.
So we now have two distinct ailments. Inwardly, the self-referential you, he, and she exile me from myself. Outwardly, the other-referential they, him, and her exile me from my fellow beings—not because those people are not genuinely other, but because the distancing pronoun tempts me to replace them with my own fearful inventions.
Both are failures of inhabitation. In the first, I fail to inhabit myself. In the second, I fail to grant others the dignity of being inhabited subjects in their own right—becoming instead an internal gatekeeper, controlling their image to fit my narrative.
If perception creates reality, then the outward third person, wielded carelessly, creates a reality of fragmentation. When I regard my family, my neighbors, and my colleagues as a mere collection of theys—as objects rather than subjects—I sever the spiritual tendon that binds the collective body. Life will return evidence of this to me in plain, measurable terms.
And here the grammar reveals its most dangerous architecture: the division of the world into us and them. This is the outward third person weaponized, the wall raised to its full and terrible height. Once a portion of humanity has been relegated to them, they cease to be subjects worthy of inhabiting and become objects to be feared, blamed, or conquered. The peculiar cruelty of this construction is that it always travels in pairs: there is no them without a corresponding us, no exile without a fortress. We imagine ourselves whole, bounded, separate—sealed within the rigid citadel of I, me, mine—and from that fortress we cast outward whatever we cannot bear to see in ourselves.
This is the origin of projection, and here the two ailments converge. The shadow I refuse to own within myself—the inward fracture—does not simply vanish. The disowned material must land somewhere, and so it lands upon them—the outward severance. The failure to inhabit my own self becomes the failure to grant others their full reality.
But this entire architecture rests on a misperception—the same misperception the mountain dissolved when it showed me that all I would ever see, unto eternity, is myself. We are not the sealed, solitary objects our grammar implies. We are porous—permeable to one another, made of the same breath and the same wound, more deeply interconnected than language can easily confess. The them we condemn is, at a level beneath the reach of pronouns, already part of the we. To forget this is to mistake the map of our isolation for the territory of our shared being.
When I practice the first-person pronoun in self-talk, I find greater self-awareness and emotional balance. The I grounds me in the self; the we grounds me in the collective. The unexamined inward he, she, and you leave me floating in a void. The unexamined outward they leaves me marooned behind a wall.
Some insist the outward third person is necessary for objectivity—that to assess fairly, one must detach. Across business, politics, and even therapy, there persists a stubborn belief that emotional distance equals competence. But this confuses clarity with detachment. One can see another person clearly—can even, in plain truth, call them he or she—without severing the heartstring of empathy, without collapsing a living subject into a manageable object. The most damaged institutions are often led by those who treat their people as they rather than we, elevating ego and self-interest above the shared body. True resilience is found not in detachment, but in the radical embrace of the collective.
So the discipline is twofold.
Inwardly: let us move our self-references from the alienating third and second person toward the integrated first person. Let us catch ourselves when we call ourselves you or him, and ask why we are afraid to say I.
Outwardly: when we speak of the human family, catch ourselves when we say they, and ask whether we can honestly say we. And when we must speak of another as he or she, ask whether we are seeing the person—or only our projection of them.
And beneath both disciplines lies the deepest one of all, the one the mountain taught in a single naked instant: resist the rush to name. When something true and unmediated arrives, do not clothe it too quickly in the old vocabulary. Let it remain conceptually naked long enough to be known on its own terms, before the conditioned mind reaches for its familiar walls.
In doing all of this, we do not merely change our sentences. We change our soul, and by extension the reality we inhabit.
I will not pretend this is easy. After thirty-nine years, I am still learning to live by it. Our present era has tested me with a strong urge to distance my identity from those whose values appall me—to file them under them and be done with it. And yet: I am, and we are—even when what we have become under the Trump administration unsettles my peace.
I suspect you feel the same about the times we share.
We all must continue the work of rehabilitating the spiritual damage within the we.
Living Within the Unlimited Bandwidth
The invisible shield in the crucible. In the midst of chaos, you may sense an unseen architecture deflecting the heaviest blows—not mere luck, but the universe quietly redirecting harm, guiding you toward sanctuary when logic promised only ruin.
The symphony of synchronicity. What the uninitiated dismiss as coincidence, you recognize as the dialogue of the cosmos: the exact wisdom arriving the moment you need it, the chance encounter that bends the whole arc of your life.
The quiet oracle within. Beneath the clamor of the ego lies a tranquil, unwavering knowing. It does not shout with anxiety. It waits, and patiently invites you to surrender to a deeper intuition.
The alchemy of empathy. You are drawn to ease the suffering of others—not from obligation, but from the bone-deep recognition of shared existence. It is the Infinite expressing itself through your hands.
The crucible of transformation. You no longer merely endure hardship; you transmute it into wisdom, understanding at last that life is not punishing you. It is sculpting you.
The anchor in the void. Where uncertainty breeds terror in the ego, you carry a paradoxical calm—trusting that you need not control the currents of the cosmos in order to be carried safely by them.
The reverence for the ordinary. You feel an unprompted gratitude that requires no grand catalyst, finding beauty in the quiet poetry of an ordinary hour—evidence of a loving force that holds you regardless of circumstance.
Stranger In A Strange Land
What remains, after the wounds are healed, the emotional debris cleared, and the linguistic fractures mended?
What remains is the metamorphosis itself—the quiet miracle that carries the butterfly out of the caterpillar. If the butterfly could speak, it would tell of flight and open sky, not of the slow crawl through dirt. Yet it arose from a world of ground-dwellers, and that is where all its old stories were written.
Imagine that butterfly returning to its caterpillar friends, eager to describe the life waiting just beyond their reach. Imagine what the response from the caterpillars might be.
Get lost. You were never one of us.
Nice for you to fly, but that’s not for me.
Have you heard about the tasty leaves on that parsley plant?
These are the replies of those who find change threatening, unnecessary, or impossible. But spiritual freedom is precisely this: the release of limitation, and the patient relearning of how to communicate—with one another, and within ourselves. The new life is never reserved for the chosen few. It is available to all.
Each of us carries the inner wisdom of a master teacher, yet that master sits mostly ignored in the unvisited recesses of the heart. On Larch Mountain, I was handed a blank slate and invited to write a new self upon it. The world I had once longed to flee became paradise. Heaven was no longer a distant promise but a living present—a breath, a heartbeat, a now. But I could not drag the old me into that world. I had to leave my baggage at the trailhead—both the words I spoke and the silences I hid behind—in order to stay in tune with the new music.
The Infinite is difficult to relay. It defies the rational mind, though it will eventually speak through a healed one—but only if that mind has first been prepared and made willing, no matter the cost. This is why those who undergo dramatic spiritual experiences so often become poor communicators in the years that follow. I was mute in this way for a long time. I learned, eventually, to let people know me for who I was, not who I had been. Yet I could not articulate the message without tripping up over my words. My hope was by showing what truth wasn’t, it would be possible to have the truth reveal what it really was to any interested seeker, friend or reader. I can’t give anyone God, truth, or the infinite, but I can show how our language leads us astray from the Universe’s magnificence, mystery, and profound healing capacity.
When I tell my story now, I have learned to turn the volume up—especially in the places where I most need to hear myself. Listening to my own voice does not guarantee that others, long conditioned to ignore me or to obfuscate the truth, will listen too. But sometimes a bird sings in the forest even when no other birds are listening. The real miracle was never that others would finally hear me.
The miracle is that I am finally singing—and finally hearing myself.
Can you hear me now?
Can I hear me now?
It has been a great adventure, this life—and it is a quiet fulfillment to have lived long enough, and grown articulate enough, to set a verbal framework around the whole of it. The “whole” will always elude description, our language just cannot describe that which underlies all of existence.
I am what I am, but I am not only what I seem to be.
You are what you are, but you are not only what you seem to be.
We all need a bigger story. We all need more heart, and more healing. And we all need each other to make our stories complete.
So I will ask you what an unhappy childhood once encouraged me to pursue.
Are you ready, at last, to “get off of this fucking rock”?
Not to flee the world—I tried that for sixteen years—but to step into the one that was always here, waiting beneath the noise.
Robert Heinlein said it through Michael Valentine Smith, the Stranger in a Strange Land who looked upon his world and understood:
Thou Art God.
So are you.
So am I.
So are we.
This is the life on the Universe’s unlimited bandwidth.
The door to the infinite is open.
Let us walk through it together.
Namaste.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.” —William Blake
