The last stop on the Karma Express
The death waves grow shorter and shorter, until they crash together into the eerie silence of zero point. Here, nothing is prescribed; we are tabla rasa in physical form for the first time.
The Descent Into Hell by Jacopo Tintoretto
Y es, it’s beyond time to disembark. Alight now, or stay aboard for yet another circuit. What resonates one day, doesn’t the next. An idea whose time has come disappears in a vapor. Trying to wrestle our silent intuitions into a commitment — into a recognizable form — can leave us grasping at air. Such are the micro-climates of our living bardo states. Yes, we have died but our bodies remain, and this is enough to send tremors through the third-dimensional fabric that upholds this ever-thinning reality.
In the karmic recycling system, the craving for a body magnetized witless souls through the gate of false light and back into density and forgetfulness. Our here-and-now physical presence is exposing the old dogma that life is a school of lessons — and repeating levels a necessity — as a chimera of addled imaginations. We have graduated from that delusion, and came back to dismantle the whole sordid apparatus through the sheer brilliance of our awareness.
The bardo states — which are by definition, liminal, that is, between worlds — demanded the soul’s non-physical presence to see beyond and through the seductions of form and memory. If we failed to recognize the pure light of awareness, a spectral sideshow ensued, full of lesser gods and demons bidding for our attention. And so it is writ large in our post-truth simulated reality. As the living bridges between worlds, our mistake would be to assume a dialectical battle between good and evil, between the stability of the old normal and a cancel culture hijacked by a death cult. Yet this conflict is only the antithesis — the pattern interrupter — that gives rise to a new order of altogether.
In other words, there is no side to choose; and if we must use that language, then it is we who are being chosen as sovereign expressions of Source light. We are the synthesis in dynamic motion, braiding a new fabric of reality.
Those lesser gods and demons are real enough when the collective disgorges its shadow. Yet all of consciousness is valid. The Tao is total. Though a dualistic lens, anything that is presenting as not of the Tao is seeking, in the dim recesses of its own awareness, a return to totality. It is seeking transformation, even if it means an obliteration of its perceived identity.
Absurd ideologies and pantomime awakening — like egoless egos, intolerant tolerance, exclusive pluralism — will immolate on a bonfire of their own contradictions.
This must play out, and it’s all in perfect accord with the mass dissolution to center point.
As individuals, how we engage with the outer world reflects what’s left for us to metabolize so we may recognize the pure light of awareness as our origin and destiny. If our community or tribe seems to be withering, it is only because the bandwidth of our individual resonance is becoming so refined and specific that, in the end, we are left with just ourselves. We are our own greatest healers and confidantes. The death waves grow shorter and shorter, until they crash together into the eerie silence of zero point. Here, nothing is prescribed; we are tabla rasa in physical form for the first time.
Shadows on the wall
As wayshowers, we walk through our living bardo states to chart a path — allowing the unknown to become known for those that follow. Until now, such a path has been the initiates’ way of private enlightenment. However, this final judgment is for the World. The universal teachers have laid the groundwork. In recent times, we have all faced the trial in the desert, the inquisition under the Bodhi tree. Our temptations, however, are unique to our age and to the third-dimensional matrix of belief — purpose, outcome, process, external validation. We have been stripped naked before these claims upon our sovereignty, these seductions to cause and effect.
In Plato’s famous allegory, a group of people who have been chained to the wall of a cave since childhood mistake the shadows being cast by a fire they cannot see for reality. In fact, it is their only reality. Even if one of the prisoners accustomed to the dark was freed from his constraints, the fire would be far too bright to gaze upon, much less the sun outside the walls of this prison. Plato hypothesized that only a True Philosopher could ever escape the cave. For most, it’s better to go back to the shadows on the wall; better to be manipulated by puppets and false light.
To emerge from the bardo states is to be reborn as Plato’s True Philosopher.
In the wisdom gospels of Mary Magdalene, Philip and Thomas, it is called Anthropos: the full flowering of the human and the divine into singularity. We are modelling the new world right here and now, while our light continues to expose new shadows and burn off the dross of veiled perception. It can be no other way. A light is still a light, no matter the inconvenience.
After all those death waves, a reverse-split of time and consciousness means we can now arise as waves of life. Indeed, as our bandwidth merges with the sound of all creation, there is no more exclusive experience; love is a borderless universe. As all the mystery initiates knew, death is the first and last frontier of the Holy New, and the unknown the ground of unbridled cosmic creation. Instead of choiceless rebirth, we are consciously reincarnating without having ever left the body. When the Buddha attained enlightenment, he pointed to the Earth as his witness. In our collective awakening, the Cosmos watches in thrall.
Humanity’s greatest addiction is to our opinion. It is a fantasy that we should all agree on the nature of reality.
Yes, we are ascending, transmuting, healing, growing, evolving … but this ever-in-motion process is going nowhere fast. Awakening in a closed-loop system stays forever just out of reach.
Light or dark, service to self or other? Regardless of the narrative, the real trip is that both story-lines collapse into the one ending.