Part 1: THE TEST: SHINGLES!
The severity of the pain I've experienced lately (with facial shingles) has allowed glimpses of that eternal consciousness to which all energy streams lead. This state has happened unbidden and consciously, while I am in pain and awake, but also in dreamland.
The severity of the pain I've experienced lately (with facial shingles) has allowed glimpses of that eternal consciousness to which all energy streams lead. This state has happened unbidden and consciously, while I am in pain and awake, but also in dreamland.
It is hard to describe because so many of our descriptions are about the edges of "things" or "experiences" and not about their entirety, which encompasses energies beyond human consciousness. I experienced colours, sounds, aromas, tastes and textures (including my essence or being) as being mingled together. And in that blinding pain, I understood that our human need to categorize these different aspects of the ONE into separate experiences is odd since they are all ONE energy, continuously flowing through and around and beyond, timelessly and formlessly, until directed by Will.
The pain of shingles is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. And yet, when I was not ABLE to think coherently, I became very aware that there is no time or space, and everything that was, exists now and will always exist. Time itself was/is the illusion. So why did I feel the burn of this dread shingles virus for four solid months? Was my pain an illusion too?
I find it interesting that I chose to experience extreme physical pain WHILE realizing it is only our worldly perception that creates limitations of time and space. Knowing this Truth intuitively and learning it mentally and physically are obviously poles apart in experience. Just as being a part of that Truth consciously is poles apart from knowing it only intuitively.
I find it interesting that I chose to experience extreme physical pain WHILE realizing it is only our worldly perception that creates limitations of time and space. Knowing this Truth intuitively and learning it mentally and physically are obviously poles apart in experience. Just as being a part of that Truth consciously is poles apart from knowing it only intuitively.
Oliver Wendell Holmes said that "A mind once stretched by a new horizon never regains its original dimension" To say my mind has been stretched is an understatement. After a 4 month course of steroids, to control the inflammation, my entire body is bloated and my skin stretched to accommodate it. Mentally thought, it feels like it's been blasted into, around and through every minute fragment that ever existed in this universe! I'm well and truly pulverized now.
In my experience of the Eternal Now, I saw (and now see) my life and lives as streams of energy. In some I gained, and in some I lost. My current life was also there, glowing but dimly, much to my chagrin! But even as I viewed it, I noticed how my "thoughts/feelings/moods/ideas/experiences" that were all of ONE energy vibration actually did change, significantly, the quality of my current life.
When I returned to 'normal' everyday consciousness, I realized how easy it is to transform oneself, and yet how difficult we make it on ourselves. The quality of our thought is of prime importance. How we talk to ourselves, as well as others; how and why we make our decisions; how we think about our past; how we DECIDE TO SUFFER (the core of my lesson this time around), and how and when we decide to enjoy, without fear, the life we are creating.
If a new depth of wisdom accompanies my recent transformation, then I will surely be led down the path of sharing it, in workshops and through deeper mentoring of individuals. For now, my physical body is still in recovery, so my particular pathway has not yet become evident. But whatever it is, I consciously choose to meet my destiny joyfully and with a renewed sense of serenity.
Part 2: THE REALIZATION!
I have a type-A personality which means that sitting still for long periods of time, doing nothing is almost impossible for me. I need to be reading, learning, planning or creating something, because, without that "busy-ness" in my life, I feel impotent, useless and irritable.
At least, that was all true, before I endured a painful outbreak of shingles.
The itchy, painful lesions primarily affected my scalp, forehead, right eyebrow and eyelid, with, thankfully, only minor involvement of my nose and ear. The swelling in my right eye grew as large as a hen's egg, closing of its own accord, preventing binocular vision. And the pressure on the delicate tissues of my upper eyelid was immense. Unable to read or watch TV without discomfort, I slept a great deal, for the first couple of weeks, till the swelling subsided.
A month later, when the lesions had fully healed, I unhappily noted that the former piercing eye and head-aches still continued to plague me. Whenever I tried to read, watch TV or even felt/thought/expressed myself too deeply about a subject, the familiar pain would re-surface causing me to reach for relief from my prescribed narcotic medication.
Two months later, I have finally weaned from the narcotic medications, but still have to rely on non-addictive help to control the pain. Getting to this point has been a voyage of discovery - about myself, my pain threshold and the joy of being absolutely and gloriously without thought.
Strange though it may sound, being without thought is quite a pleasant experience. Without the mind's constant chatter to interrupt us, we no longer simply take note of what is around us. Instead we experience it more directly, more simply and more deeply.
From my living room chair, I am blessed with a postage stamp view of Lake Osoyoos and the sandstone mountain rising from it. Being confined to my home, I slowly became more able to appreciate aspects of my limited view that I had formerly overlooked, or dismissed as being unimportant to my existence. I couldn't have been more wrong.
For the first two weeks of this "shingles ordeal", while my eyes were closed, but I was awake, I became more keenly aware of my sound environment. The world beyond my windows became my orchestra, and each separate sound an instrument that contributed to the concert to which I was treated, when I realized that I already had the "ears to hear".
The wind painted large swaths of sound, swirling around the corners of nearby buildings, past parked cars, through fences and between trees, raising its pitch as it gained intensity, and then softening to a barely perceptible whisper as each gust died away. The intermittent growl from the engines of passing vehicles and the cheerful chatter of my neighbours punctuated this soundscape. By mid-afternoon, I could follow the calls of quail as they cruised across our car park, looking for gravel to aid their digestion.
Occasionally the wind would play a delicate flute-like melody as it danced through the autumn leaves of the tree next door. Sometimes it would furiously whip the lake into a frenzy, making the waves splash wildly against the shoreline, a sound that had not before been audible to me, since I live two blocks from the water.
And then, after one particularly stormy night, I noticed that the melody had changed.
From the chirping of the few birds who had not yet migrated south for the winter, I knew that the morning had dawned bright and sunny. So I imagined that the storm, which supplied our desert with much needed fresh water, had also coaxed, from their hidden recesses, the earthworms upon which those happy birds were now feasting. And then suddenly I realized that, without being busy or manically creative, I was truly happy just to be able to hear all these wonderful sounds of nature. Just listening was for me then - and has remained still - a treasured pastime.
Had shingles not denied me the easy use of my eyes, I might never have learned to appreciate the different dimensions of the place in which I live. Even since I regained my sight, I have been able to identify more sound textures in my ever changing soundscape. The sharp retorts of scolding squirrels punctuate the music like a snare drum, while the short, sharp bark of the dog next door is a discordant note in the symphony.
Even indoor sounds like doorbells and footsteps, speaking voices and running bath-water, crackling candles or mechanical sounds like a working dishwasher added depth to my sound environment. And the more sounds I was able to identify, the happier I felt. It was as if another world, that had always been there, had suddenly revealed its secrets to me.
What did this new experience teach me? In a word, gratitude. I found myself being grateful for the ability to hear all these amazing sounds. And beyond the sounds, I felt gratitude just to be living in this incredibly beautiful place. It took a horrible, disfiguring condition like shingles to get me to notice it in the first place. But now that I have, I can't wait to hear what tomorrow brings! Being forced to do nothing can truly a blessing in disguise.
Part 2: THE REALIZATION!
I have a type-A personality which means that sitting still for long periods of time, doing nothing is almost impossible for me. I need to be reading, learning, planning or creating something, because, without that "busy-ness" in my life, I feel impotent, useless and irritable.
At least, that was all true, before I endured a painful outbreak of shingles.
The itchy, painful lesions primarily affected my scalp, forehead, right eyebrow and eyelid, with, thankfully, only minor involvement of my nose and ear. The swelling in my right eye grew as large as a hen's egg, closing of its own accord, preventing binocular vision. And the pressure on the delicate tissues of my upper eyelid was immense. Unable to read or watch TV without discomfort, I slept a great deal, for the first couple of weeks, till the swelling subsided.
A month later, when the lesions had fully healed, I unhappily noted that the former piercing eye and head-aches still continued to plague me. Whenever I tried to read, watch TV or even felt/thought/expressed myself too deeply about a subject, the familiar pain would re-surface causing me to reach for relief from my prescribed narcotic medication.
Two months later, I have finally weaned from the narcotic medications, but still have to rely on non-addictive help to control the pain. Getting to this point has been a voyage of discovery - about myself, my pain threshold and the joy of being absolutely and gloriously without thought.
Strange though it may sound, being without thought is quite a pleasant experience. Without the mind's constant chatter to interrupt us, we no longer simply take note of what is around us. Instead we experience it more directly, more simply and more deeply.
From my living room chair, I am blessed with a postage stamp view of Lake Osoyoos and the sandstone mountain rising from it. Being confined to my home, I slowly became more able to appreciate aspects of my limited view that I had formerly overlooked, or dismissed as being unimportant to my existence. I couldn't have been more wrong.
For the first two weeks of this "shingles ordeal", while my eyes were closed, but I was awake, I became more keenly aware of my sound environment. The world beyond my windows became my orchestra, and each separate sound an instrument that contributed to the concert to which I was treated, when I realized that I already had the "ears to hear".
The wind painted large swaths of sound, swirling around the corners of nearby buildings, past parked cars, through fences and between trees, raising its pitch as it gained intensity, and then softening to a barely perceptible whisper as each gust died away. The intermittent growl from the engines of passing vehicles and the cheerful chatter of my neighbours punctuated this soundscape. By mid-afternoon, I could follow the calls of quail as they cruised across our car park, looking for gravel to aid their digestion.
Occasionally the wind would play a delicate flute-like melody as it danced through the autumn leaves of the tree next door. Sometimes it would furiously whip the lake into a frenzy, making the waves splash wildly against the shoreline, a sound that had not before been audible to me, since I live two blocks from the water.
And then, after one particularly stormy night, I noticed that the melody had changed.
From the chirping of the few birds who had not yet migrated south for the winter, I knew that the morning had dawned bright and sunny. So I imagined that the storm, which supplied our desert with much needed fresh water, had also coaxed, from their hidden recesses, the earthworms upon which those happy birds were now feasting. And then suddenly I realized that, without being busy or manically creative, I was truly happy just to be able to hear all these wonderful sounds of nature. Just listening was for me then - and has remained still - a treasured pastime.
Had shingles not denied me the easy use of my eyes, I might never have learned to appreciate the different dimensions of the place in which I live. Even since I regained my sight, I have been able to identify more sound textures in my ever changing soundscape. The sharp retorts of scolding squirrels punctuate the music like a snare drum, while the short, sharp bark of the dog next door is a discordant note in the symphony.
Even indoor sounds like doorbells and footsteps, speaking voices and running bath-water, crackling candles or mechanical sounds like a working dishwasher added depth to my sound environment. And the more sounds I was able to identify, the happier I felt. It was as if another world, that had always been there, had suddenly revealed its secrets to me.
What did this new experience teach me? In a word, gratitude. I found myself being grateful for the ability to hear all these amazing sounds. And beyond the sounds, I felt gratitude just to be living in this incredibly beautiful place. It took a horrible, disfiguring condition like shingles to get me to notice it in the first place. But now that I have, I can't wait to hear what tomorrow brings! Being forced to do nothing can truly a blessing in disguise.
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