Imagine you are born on the edge of a lake. You spend your formative years engaged in play until you, along with the rest of the children, are sent off on your own mission. Your parents have spent their entire life carrying a bundle above their heads that they class as the most sacred. Why? Because their parents told them and theirs before them in an immense link that extends back through their lineage, totally unquestioned. “You are still a child but growing quick” they say as they hand you the bundle. “Take this, hold your breath and walk through this stream to the other side whilst keeping it dry and not letting anything happen to it. This is your life. This is your mission. Once you reach the other side you will beget a child and tell them to do the same. Go, go now” they say.
Being a good, obedient child who is exceedingly impressionable you take this as reasonable. After all, your parents just want the best, its what they did and they turned out pretty well plus all of the other kids are doing it. “Who am I to question this?” you secretly think but won’t ever dare express as you don’t wish to be disconnected from their affection or disappoint their expectations. After all, you are still a child and thus your world revolves around them as it in their direction you glance for affirmation, validation and confirmation about what you’re doing. “So, if they say this is what it is then it must be” you think as you head off on your trip.
The journey is long and arduous. Its lonely as well because you cannot speak to anyone there. Plus you are holding your breath whilst doing your best to navigate all of these obstacles which are slung across the deck as well as the waves that threaten to creep over the bundle you must keep safe, dry and elevated high.
As you progress you grow but the stream does the same. Always ensuring its levels are maintained. Its such a gradual thing that most do not notice but you always were perceptive and cannot help but question, quietly, to yourself, why this is the case. “What is even in this bundle?” you wonder after barely surviving a particularly harrowing experience. “Why is the water so hostile to it? Why am I the one who must handle the thrills and spills as it chills? My shoulders are aching, my feet are sore, my lungs burning and the end is so far off in the distance. Why the hell am I even doing this?” you yell within in a moment of frustration.
Thing is, you’ve been doing it for so long now that you’ve actually got used to it. The tiny sips you exhale from this limited breathing pattern, the obstacles below that can’t wait to rip your legs from beneath you as you step as well as the waves above which creep and always maintain their constant threat as you step from one shore to the next.
Eventually, you make it. You look around and see that what stepped in as Inner Sense is now on the other side and Adulterated by the imperience. Their toil, pain and suffering remains unquestioned as this is a time of great celebration. Everyone joins in. Partners are picked, relationships cemented and the next generation instructed to lift the bundle, cross the stream, be as we and do as we did without question. For you, this doesn’t cut it. The decades spent underground carrying this weight over your head solidified the position of many who took it as providence and that this was their mission in the flesh. “To not do means we’re infidels. You know what happens to them at death?” said an old childhood friend as you attempted to subtly broach the topic with them. “Why would you ask such questions? Is your faith waning? Look, we made it. As promised” they say with eyes shining at the end of their quest. “Our parents are very proud. Don’t you want to be just like them? From where is all this coming? Why are you talking like this?” is said in worried tones as you artfully deflect and realize you’re on your own with this.
Whilst everyone is running around rutting, celebrating and engaging in the rites as proscribed to prepare the next gen you retire into the distance alone, in order to think and try and make sense. The party is very noisy and thus you end up climbing a hill. The higher you get the quieter it is and thus you begin talking out loud to your Self as you try and make sense of this configuration you were born into and so few question. “Why?” you wonder. “Why is it like this? To what end? Is everyone in the world like this or just those who live on this cursed island?“. Taken aback by your own blasphemous thoughts finally expressed you sense an immense and crushing feeling of guilt weighing down on your chest. The voice in your head calls you all kinds of infidels, a traitor to the old ways, disrespecter of parents along with “Why are you up here anyway? You should be reproducing on the shore, relax, celebrate”. “Why? Why would I do this? To bring another into this long line of ignorance that has never been questioned as they’re born in a state of abundance but then forced to carry these stupid bundles across a lake filled with obstacles that seem designed to test and cause as much discomfort as possible? To what end? Do it all again? And again? And again? How many generations have subscribed to this madness? Why does no one ever question the process? What is the meaning of all of this?” you say as you’re frantically pacing, ranting and raving.
You place the bundle down on the ground and climb up a tree instead.
Up, up you go. You remember being so fond of this experience, back when, and you’d challenge the rest of your tribe to see who could get the highest. “Yes, yes” you think. “When I was young I was interested in flying. I wanted to soar in the skies with the freedom of a bird so I could see great distances and view with a totally new perspective”. Your parents indulged these whims, for a moment, but they were quickly curtailed as those arms you like to flap and imagine were wings were filled, bit by bit, by pieces that would become the bundle. At the time you didn’t question it because its what everyone did but now after having gone through it the idea of begetting a child and then setting them off on the same mission whilst knowing fine well they’d never dare question what was said, even if they felt it was odd, deep within, is akin to a sin. Something you find quite unforgivable. Your bundle brothers and sisters have no such complication. They do as they were told, move as intended and right now are copulating in celebration as you sit alone, high up ahead.
From your current vantage point you notice that there are circles of land with streams in between. “As far as the eye can see…” you said. “Just like Atlantis! I wonder who built this? It must be artificial as its too geometrically perfect to be naturally rendered. That and the water that sinks and rises as you step in. How it seems to meet everyone on their own level. What the hell is this place? Who made it? To what end? And what the hell is inside in the bundle?“.
You clamber down the tree with an intent ferocity as you stride over to the weight you’ve been carrying. On the outside are etched various legends that people recite, verbatim, but no one has ever looked within. Much like a cabbage there are layers of leaves and you remembered how your parents would peel off a sheet or three of their which started your enculturation. As you progressed these outer layers increased, as did the density, and now you stand, fully grown, alone and filled with questions surrounding this mystery of iniquity which says “Forget your life, carry me”.
You feel immense pangs of guilt for even daring to think this as well as huge amount of disrespect for being the first of your line to question these traditions as the legends tell stories of your people who have been keeping these bundles safe as they step into the lake of treachery, one generation after the next. But you are different. That will to know, that glow of Inner Sense, simply cannot accept without question. “After all” you said. “If this is how I am and was made then it is as intended” but you cannot help but wonder if its you thats defective as no one else thinks like this. Down below the celebrations are winding down but up above your quest for gnosis is revving.
Tearing off the external sheets off this etheric cabbage you notice pages within written in the hand of your parents. Your mother says “Why must I send my son off into this ocean carrying this baggage? He deserves to play, engage and run free with the rest”. Surprised you keep reading as your father writes on another leaf “I wonder what is within this bundle? It was once small, now immense. I’m scared to look within and even more frightened to question. What would the rest of my people think? Surely they would scream “infidel” and that would not be good so let us never think this again”.
Tears are streaming down your face as you take this in. You start voraciously reading and discover so many unexpressed sentiments, emotions and perspectives with which you find a huge resonance as you discover you’ve been carrying (and indirectly venerating) your ancestors sufferings and lives unexamined as they too slotted into the script which says “My child, we are the chosen, take this bundle and carry it across the ocean. Read the outside, memorize it well then pass it onto your descendants so they can do as we did. Keep up the tradition. Carry this over your head”.
Shaken to the core, in the literal and metaphysical sense, you are now sans bundle. Curiously, you noticed that each page vanished after you’d examined it and as this weight you’d been carrying for so long evaporated you became aware of a simultaneous easing of a pressure on your chest that you weren’t even conscious of before making your ascent. At some point the levee breaks and you are awash with emotion. A torrential downpour of the suppressed pain and suffering from all those lives lived which exist still as the blood in your veins is streaming from your eyes as you are wracked with the intensity of being the one who sees what they dared not perceive.
Down below in the valley someone had realized you were missing and thus they’d set off in expedition to find the lost member of their tribe. Some of them climbed up the hill and heard your anguished screams from a distance and as they came running their first thoughts that you’d been robbed as your bundle was missing. “There, there. There, there” they say as they attempt to comfort and you gladly accept their affection as your entire world has been torn to shreds as you’ve been developing an inkling of the bigger pic. “Oh, its so horrific. Its horrifying. Why would someone do this?” you say through eyes blurred with pain that had built one generation to the next. They hear but do not innerstand and thus filter your expressions based on their imperience and projections. A search party is sent out with weapons to see who dares disrespect their tradition. “What kind of low life would steal a mans bundle? Its the symbol of our people and the reason for our existence” is said as people of murderous intent are prowling across the plains looking for someone to kill for daring to go against.
Up on the hill you are still a wreck as being the incarnated vent for the sufferings of the long dead is quite an intense experience. Gradually you start snapping back to reality but the box within which they sit and decorate with signs that say “This is the way it is. No questions accepted nor needed, simply carry the bundle and all will be well” no longer hits like it did. You rest and recuperate, trying to get your bearings. Within you are totally conflicted as these are your people. You share customs, a language, traditions and expectations. Through thick and thin they’ve always been there and thus are more like family. This much is obvious as they lavish you with care and attention. Off in the distance you hear a celebratory whooping.
There is a flurry of excitement as the men sent out to extract vengeance come back dragging someone you’ve never met with them. His style of dress, his manner and dialect are all different. “Brother, look. We have found the thief and we shall have vengeance” they said as they flung the badly beaten traveller at your feet. He desperately clutches to his bundle and frantically mumbles what you assume are prayers for deliverance from this wickedness he is facing. “Thats not my bundle” you say, plainly and matter of factly. “Of course it is” says one, with a hint of menace, look he adds whilst pointing at the surface “It says “Treat others as you wish to be treat“. Is that not our legend? Our way of living? Our spiritual instruction when condensed to its purist meaning? Brother, this is your bundle and we shall kill this thief, this infidel who dared go against us. Here, take what is yours” he says as he snatches the weight from the man lying, crying on the deck at such savage treatment.
“How do I tell them what has happened?” you think. “Its obvious the red mist has descended over the eyes of these who went out seeking for vengeance and who is this poor wretch? Wherever did they find him? What am I supposed to do to ensure they don’t harm him for my indiscretions?”. “Give me the knife” you said “And some rope as well. Its between me and him. I will personally deal with this infidel and bring you his head when I am finished. My brothers and sisters, thank you for all your help but it is now time for you to focus your attention on your children. Prepare their bundles, carry on the traditions of our people and send them off into the ocean where they shall step, from one generation to the next”.
Roused by your speech laced with motivation that vibes with their inclinations they depart and leave you and your prey, who lay immobile. Once they have retired back to the beaches you feed your captive, give him something to drink and then make a big show of taking the blade and burying it off in the distance. Knowing that language is only a part of communication you decide to get your point across like this:
Showing him your bare hands which you then bring to join at your chest as you bow your head at your now bemused hostage you gesture from your lips whilst pointing at your chest in order to express this is your story. You start crawling on the floor after drawing a stick outline of man, woman and creation on the dirt. “This is me, back then” you emote to one who is steadily getting drawn in to your performance. You run to grab some of leaves lying nearby as they’ve fell off trees and you create an approximation of a bundle. You point at yours and then his before pantomiming carrying it through the ocean. The man nods in agreement. The dialect is different but he is very familiar with this. “Mission” he says. “Yes, yes” you nod your head in agreement whilst pointing at your chest and replying “Chosen”. Suddenly the Rosetta stone starts to spin and both comprehend the similarity beneath the difference.
Eventually you get to the point where he currently sits in shackles. You noticed that when you told him of opening the bundle and reading what was within he said “Disbeliever” and shook his head. “We call those infidel and yes, I guess you can say I am but its what I found within” you said as you furnished the details. With drawings in the dirt of many past generations, all carrying their own bundles filled with suffering to which they remain willfully ignorant you pantomime the feelings of release that came after the wailing and screams you released that you’d been carrying. “You see? You see?” he said hoping that the man in front of him would get what no one in his own tribe could comprehend.
He didn’t get a chance to hear the answer. His throat was slit in a way efficient as his captives tribesmen had also sent out their people as one of their own was missing. Witnesses had stated they’d seen a group of ruffians who were yelling and whooping descend on one of their pilgrims and carry him off into the distance. This tribe was different. They trailed from a distance, observing their land and encampment. When the time was right they struck under the cover of darkness and killed all that were within. All of the men, women and children were slit from ear to ear as they slept by these silent assassins.
Up on the mountaintop to the two men engaged in metaphysical discussions way beyond the sun setting were aware of none of this as the one without a bundle was facing the one tied to a tree who saw perfectly one of his tribesmen coming up behind him with murderous intent.
“My brother” he says as he embraces his kin and hands him his bundle. “Look, in your honor, for the glory of our creator we killed these disbelievers“. “Infidels” he says. “Primitive, brutal savages. You know what he said?” he states as he starts regaling the tale to his friends and shows them the blade that was buried off in the distance.
But that was then. This is now. Whats in your bundle? The single most liberating step in this realm was releasing my energetics from this shackle of mess that, for many, defines their everything as they are so accustomed to its limitations that to live without is beyond them. This is, in many ways, one of lifes ultimate tests hence why true liberation requires total disconnection which, in a paradoxical flip, brings an immense sense of union with the all of everything you’ll have to feelsee for your Self.
Can you hear the Pyslense?
Till we meet again
