A funny thing happens when you begin to meditate. At first, you struggle.

It feels like you are constantly being distracted.

And some days (maybe most), you figure with all the time you spend redirecting yourself, it’s not worth finishing it today

… or even continuing on with it the following days.

Most people will stop there. They think they’re “just not good at it,” or not capable of doing it. Clearing your mind of thoughts feels nearly impossible.

But meditation isn’t about how good you are at doing it.

It’s about sitting down every day and making the time to allow for a connection with yourself and your higher knowing*.

For me, it doesn’t take a whole lot of time to “get there.”

There = being a place where the thoughts go away and the sound of my breath is all that I can hear. Sometimes a flicker of memory reminds me that it’s amazing to move from being somebody (in a body) to nobody (in nothing). If I hear it, I let it happen.

And when it does, it’s like the lights of a projector pop up and turn on, the pale light pointing up at the scene you’re about to drop into. The back of my eyelids go from black emptiness to a part of me traveling down a tunnel flecked with yellow glitter. Have you ever been down a blackened waterslide? It’s like that. Only without a body or the slide. Water optional.

When the tunnel coasting begins, I sometimes get glimpses.

Images race by me – but slowly enough for my mind to compute. I see people, and sometimes things. And I know them. Even if I’ve never seen them before in my life (this time).

It could be past lives (I don’t know if I even believe in past lives).

It could be my higher self (my god-womanness in an atheist mind, if you will).

Of course, it could be simply my imagination…

But today I saw an unformed foot, like a clay model. Maybe stuffed doll style.

And then I saw a paintbrush putting on the defining touches, separating out the toes, giving the foot some shape, carving in some toenails.

And it struck me that there might be a creator of that foot.

An artist, if you will.

Which felt very reassuring. Or creative. Like the luxury of creativity. One cannot come from a place of creativity while in strict survival mode, so that feeling, that frame of reference… felt safe somehow.

Until I realized that probably I was the artist.

Which didn’t remove the safety… but added a layer of “holy shitness” because what if that’s the purpose?

See, I had been meditating on the question of: What if I can live out my life’s purpose?

What if being alive in this life, with all of our traumas and all of our challenges, all of our mood swings and mistakes and consequences… what if THIS is our purpose? What if we are the artists in this experience?


(*Regardless of what you call it, there’s a part of you that knows you more clearly than you know yourself most of the time. Some consider it to be a religious or spiritual experience. Go with whatever works best for your belief systems.)


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