Note: This blog post was inspired by a dream I had last night,.and 69 years of my previous life. Join with me on the path of self-discovery, consciousness, and the ineffable. I touch upon what has been called the ultimate truth, and the nature of our human existence.
The Duality of Identity: Reconciling the Formless and the Accumulated Self
Who are we, really? At first glance, the answer seems simple—a collection of our memories, decisions, and experiences. But if we pause, look inward, and truly contemplate our sense of self, a profound duality emerges. We are both the stories we’ve accumulated across a lifetime and something far deeper, an ineffable, formless essence that transcends everything we think we know about ourselves.
To fully understand and embrace this duality is to unlock a more holistic sense of identity. It allows us to see not just who we are, but how we can live. This dual nature isn’t contradictory; it’s a harmonious paradox waiting to teach us how to move through life with authenticity, presence, and love for all things.
Imagine a moment of complete stillness. Not just physical stillness, but the kind where the constant hum of mental activity fades into the background.
Can you feel it?
That unshakable awareness within you—the state of pure being that watches, listens, and feels without attachment?
This is the formless aspect of identity. It’s untouched by memories, trauma, or even concepts of “me” and “you.” This essence operates beneath the loud chorus of our thoughts, like an eternal silence out of which all experiences unfold. It is untainted by pain, unmarked by time. Some may call it soul, spirit, or consciousness; others might see it as being one with the universe, God, or Truth itself.
An experience of this state is liberating. Years ago, I had a profound interaction with what I can only describe as infinite love—a vision that lifted my loneliness and dissolved my sense of separation from the world. For a brief moment, I was one with everything. There were no boundaries between myself and the people, the sights, or the sounds around me. The third-person monologue I lived with—the voice of my ego—disappeared completely. What I was left with was peace. I could finally ask,
“How will I see myself today?”
and answer with love, clarity, and gratitude.
This presence is within us all. It does not leave, nor does it falter. But too often, it is overshadowed by the distractions and constructs of our accumulated selves.
While the formless state of being offers a profound sense of unity, the accumulated self is equally important. This facet of identity is built from our unique tapestry of memories, culture, upbringing, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. It is how we interact within time, space, and a society structured around labels—son, daughter, parent, manager, artist, teacher, friend.
The accumulated self is how we make meaning of the world. It tells us where we have been and helps us dream about where we might go. But left unchecked, it can imprison us. It holds on to judgments, limiting beliefs, and the emotions attached to past experiences, often dictating how we respond to the present moment.
I’ve known the weight of the accumulated self deeply. For years, I wrestled with loneliness and depression, tethered to patterns of thought that echoed old stories of failure, isolation, and inadequacy. It wasn’t until my meditative practices revealed that I could “release the steering wheel” of my mental conditioning that I saw these patterns for what they were—simply stories. At any moment, I could choose to rewrite my inner dialogue, stripping away what no longer served me and creating new pathways of being.
The accumulated self, while powerful, is not our enemy. It is a crucial facet of identity that allows us to function, connect, and evolve. The challenge lies in not letting it overshadow the formless being that is the foundation of who we are.
Why must we choose one identity over the other? The truth is, we don’t. The power of identity lies in the harmony between these two facets.
The formless self provides us with peace, resilience, and the ability to tap into something timeless. It reminds us that our intrinsic worth and connectedness are not defined by external validations or the past. On the other hand, the accumulated self gives us narrative, texture, and individuality. It tells the story of our human existence and allows us to leave an impact on the world through relationships, work, and creative pursuits.
Integrating these two aspects of identity creates a well-rounded, authentic self. Imagine carrying the stillness of being into your decision-making, allowing yourself to act with clarity rather than reaction. Or drawing from the accumulated self’s history and lessons to engage with the world with humility and understanding—an interplay of rootedness and growth, like the balance between the ocean’s still depths and its dynamic surface.
How can we invite this dual identity into our modern lives, dominated by endless responsibilities, distractions, and expectations?
- Meditation and Mindfulness
Spend a few moments each day connecting with your formless self. Whether through deep breathing or silent reflection, create space for inner stillness. It’s in this quiet that you may rediscover that unperturbed awareness at your core.
- Rewrite Your Stories
When you notice the voice of the accumulated self—judging, doubting, or reacting—pause. Ask yourself if the story you’re telling is true or useful. If not, choose a new narrative aligned with who you want to become.
- Bring Presence to Your Interactions
Approach others with the understanding that they too carry both a formless and accumulated self. Offer the same unconditional love you would to a child or dear friend, even when they challenge you.
- Reflect on Unity
Recognize that we are all connected. The formless self sees no boundary between “me” and “you.” This mindset can foster compassion, break down prejudice, and promote deeper connections with both people and nature.
Whether at work, in relationships, or during personal moments of reflection, weaving together the formless and accumulated selves fosters mental well-being, resilience, and authentic engagement with the world.
Human existence becomes most vibrant when we acknowledge and celebrate all parts of ourselves—the eternal stillness of our formless state and the dynamic, evolving nature of our accumulated selves. Together, they create a richer, more complete understanding of identity.
There is immense freedom in knowing that your worth isn’t tethered to the stories you tell or the roles you play. Equally, there is power in trusting those very stories to shape your worldly impact. By identifying with both facets of self, you step into a harmony that transforms not only how you see yourself but how you exist with the world around you.
Who are you, beyond identity and within it? That is a question only you can answer. Look within, observe, and feel. You might just discover something timeless and boundless in the process.
The duality of identity isn’t just a philosophical concept—it’s an invitation.
Will you accept it?
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”― The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Man Was Created in God’s Image — But What Does That Really Mean?
What does it mean to be created in God’s image? Is it a divine mystery etched in ancient scriptures, a theological ideal meant to inspire humanity, or something far more personal and immediate? Perhaps it’s all of these. Yet, beyond these interpretations lies a deeper question—are we truly seeing one another, or even ourselves, as creations of divine love, or are we merely projecting our inner narratives onto the world around us?
Human perception is a powerful force. It colors every interaction we have, extending its bias to how we see others, the world, and even God. If we fail to see with clarity and love, then how can we truly understand the image of God—not just in others, but in ourselves?
Every one of us views the world through a personal lens carved out by our experiences, beliefs, and biases. This is as true for the devout theologian as it is for the casual seeker. Ancient scribes inscribing wisdom may have described God’s image through parables, poetry, and powerful brevity, but today’s interpretations often scratch only the surface.
The roots of the challenge lie in the limitations of our perception. When you look at a friend, a lover, or even someone at odds with you, are you truly seeing them for who they are? Or are you crafting a version of them “in your own image,” shaped by judgment, assumptions, biases, or maybe even fear? To gaze upon another with unconditional love and without judgment is to break free of the shackles of perception and step into alignment with what could be God’s image—pure, unfiltered love.
But this is no easy task. Ancient scripts and doctrines may teach us lofty ideals, but they seldom prepare us for the gritty, human challenges of seeing as God sees. It requires not only faith but intentional practice—the willingness to purify perception itself. This is the frontier that seeks to bridge spirituality with practical, everyday existence.
If God is love, as many sacred traditions suggest, then it follows that seeing through the lens of love is the way we perceive God’s image. Picture this profound shift in consciousness; what if you saw all others—friends, enemies, strangers—as extensions of that very same love? What kind of world would you experience? What kind of person would you become?
To see someone in love’s image is to accept every facet of their being—their beauty and their flaws—with grace and compassion. And when we remain in this loving consciousness, the very universe shifts around us. Love becomes the prism through which we experience all things. The barriers dissolve. Suddenly, you’re no longer standing apart from the world—you are a living, breathing reflection of it.
But this transformation must start from within. Before we can see others in God’s image, we must confront how we see ourselves. If your inner reflections are filled with judgment, guilt, or self-loathing, how can you expect to perceive others—or the divine—with clarity? The shift begins when we redirect the gaze inward and invite healing into our own hearts.
The phrase “created in God’s image” has inspired thousands of years of theological debate. It’s been weaponized to divide and uplifted to unite. But today, within a world increasingly defined by diversity, conflicting ideologies, and fractured relationships, understanding this ancient concept has never been more critical.
One of the core challenges is navigating the intersection between religious doctrine and modern interpretations. To many, the phrase still conjures literal notions tied to physical form, but what if “image” was never meant to describe outward appearances? Consider instead the essence of being—the deep compassion, wisdom, and oneness that mirrors divine qualities.
The dissonance arises when we fail to see past our own fragmented awareness. If our perception is clouded by prejudice, fear, or anger, then the divine image becomes obscured. But when those clouds lift—whether through faith, revelation, or self-work—clarity emerges. We begin to see, as one ancient tradition describes it, “closer than breathing, nearer than hands and feet.”
Personal spiritual awakenings often provide a glimpse of this deeper truth. Imagine standing on a mountain peak, the wind carrying the scent of pine, every sound muffled by the canopy of solitude. Suddenly, a stillness descends, and everything you’ve known falls away. At this moment, there is no separation between you and the world—every geological curves, every stream and boulder is not “out there” but inexplicably a part of you.
This revelation, as profound as it is humbling, was my experience in 1987, and at later times, and it uncovers an eternal truth. To know oneself deeply—to shed layers of identity and judgment—is to know God. And to know God is to recognize the inherent unity in all expressions of life. At such a level of awareness, one question lingers in every waking moment:
“How will I see myself today?”
When we begin to see all humanity as our family—all individuals as our brothers and sisters—it becomes impossible to perpetuate hatred, division, or isolation. Anger and pain, while natural, lose their grip. We are no longer bound by the wounds that once kept us trapped in separation.
The call to recognize humanity in God’s image is not reserved for scholars or mystics alone. It’s woven into the fabric of everyday interactions. It beckons us in simple yet radical ways—choosing peace when stirred by conflict, embodying love towards those who oppose us, or offering compassion to ourselves in moments of failure.
Reducing spiritual concepts to practicality doesn’t diminish their power; it amplifies them. Seeing God’s image in all life reminds us of our responsibility not just to humanity but to the Earth itself. When we care for plants, animals, and ecosystems with the same love we extend to a new child, we honor the divine in its fullest expression.
And even those moments of conflict—the family member whose actions spark anger, the stranger whose words wound us—become opportunities for transformation. Love, when extended in these moments, becomes the ultimate act of creating “God’s image” within and around us.
Religious and philosophical debates will always exist. Interpretations will vary across cultures and generations. But the question that persists is not “Who interprets this correctly?” but “How does this truth shape how we live?”
This broader view asks us to cross boundaries and extend dialogue. It challenges us to step outside fixed paradigms and engage in genuine, open discussions that foster collaboration rather than conflict. Love does not demand ideological conformity—it only asks for receptivity.
The phrase “Man was created in God’s image” carries an expansive truth waiting to be rediscovered. It’s not an abstract theological doctrine or a simple adage. It’s a calling—to see ourselves, others, and the divine with authenticity and love.
The dependency of perception on our worldview is no small thing. Begin by confronting your own filters. Reflect on how you see yourself and others. Ask yourself the question, “How will I view the world today?”
Start with love, carry it into every interaction, and watch the divine image reveal itself in ways you never imagined. The transformation begins within you. Don’t wait for tomorrow—embrace the reflection of truth today.
So, What is Truth?
This is a question posed both by Pontius Pilate and billions of other humans since language first began, one that echoes through the corridors of history, inviting reflection, debate, and, for many, bewilderment. Yet, as profound as this question is, the response from Jesus—utter, deliberate silence—might just hold the key to understanding its answer.
When Pilate asked this question, it wasn’t born out of a thirst for wisdom or a genuine search for insight. His words were laced with mockery, skepticism, and the hollow inquiries of a man bound by his worldly concerns. Pilate, vested in the power of the Roman Empire—a man who dealt in politics and cunning rather than spirituality and deeper truths—was incapable of comprehending the magnitude of the concept he toyed with. To him, “truth” was relative, situational, a commodity exchanged within palaces and courtrooms. Thus, he was unprepared for the silence he received in return.
Why did Jesus remain silent? Was it out of resignation, contempt, or the knowledge that no explanation would suffice in such an environment? None of these reasons are satisfying enough, nor do they account for the profound weight of that silence. The silence, to those who have the “ears to hear,” resounds louder than any word could. It transcends language and intellect. It speaks of a truth unbound by the manipulations of rhetoric, the limitations of reason, or the shifting sands of worldly morality.
Jesus’s silence was not an absence of response; it was the response. This silence mirrored the still, infinite depths of truth itself—truth that can neither be articulated in full nor attained through intellectual pursuit alone. Truth, in its highest form, emanates from within, where all words fall short. It lies in the stillness of the soul, the unyielding core of being, the essence of existence itself.
Pilate, like many of us, sought truth externally—searching for it in arguments, doctrines, or declarations. But truth cannot be packaged or handed over, especially to those who are unprepared to receive it. Jesus understood this. His silence was as much an act of wisdom as it was compassion—a refusal to cast pearls before swine, as he had earlier taught. The casting of spiritual truths before those who are unwilling or incapable of appreciating them leads not to enlightenment but to rejection, misunderstanding, or, worse, distortion.
But why does truth seem so elusive, so difficult to pin down? Perhaps it is because truth is not a thing to be grasped, captured, or proven—it is a state to be realized. It is not a doctrine but a way of being. To find it, one must first quiet the noise within themselves, dismantling the false truths entangled in ego, desire, and fear. Only then can one glimpse the silence within, the same silence Christ inhabited as he looked upon Pilate—a silence unmarred by cynicism or the need to justify itself.
The wisdom of Jesus’s silence reminds us that not all questions are answered in words. Often, true understanding requires that we move beyond them altogether. Pilate, despite standing face to face with an embodiment of truth, could not “see” it. Spiritual truth is something that meets us where we are, resonating only as deeply as we are prepared to receive it. To someone blind to deeper realities, truth remains invisible, incomprehensible.
This reflection on truth does not yield a neat, satisfying conclusion. But perhaps that’s the point. Truth—absolute and unchanging—resides in the realm of the infinite, where human language falters. It is simultaneously something we pursue and something already present within us. The silence of Jesus challenges us to stop and ask ourselves a deeper question—not “What is truth?” but “Am I prepared to know it?”
For those willing to enter that silence within, truth awaits—not as an answer, but as a presence, a state of being, a way of seeing the world unclouded by illusion.
