Our imagination does not arise from our experience; rather, our experience of the world emerges from our imagination. Our imagination is not mere fantasy to be poo-pooed with a dismissive invitation to come down to earth, to "get real." Our imagination is the essence of our consciousness, is the most real of all that is real. The closer we are to materialistic form devoid of all imagination, the less conscious we are.
We are magi, mages, magicians, imagineers. We are "made in God's own image;" we are imaginings of the Source. What power! As imaginings of the Life Force, our imaginings partake of the same vibrancy, the same "juice" as the creative imagination producing all that is.
What we imagine, we become. What we "think in our heart," so we are.
Yet we so often succumb to form, especially to the form of our physical body. We experience it as a weight, as an anchor, especially if it is sick. And here is the news: the body is always sick. We are, as Yeats said, "fastened to a dying animal." The Zen dudes put it this way: "Who is it dragging this corpse around?"
The physical body is a base of operation. An excellent base. The only base we have in this world of form. From it arises the imagination; in its vertical ascent and expansion, we co-create a new and everchanging world.
This is the second birth.
If someone chastises you again for staring out the window, do not come back into the room with its walls. Live in the realm of the boundless. Otherwise you are nothing but a breathing corpse.
We are magi, mages, magicians, imagineers. We are "made in God's own image;" we are imaginings of the Source. What power! As imaginings of the Life Force, our imaginings partake of the same vibrancy, the same "juice" as the creative imagination producing all that is.
What we imagine, we become. What we "think in our heart," so we are.
Yet we so often succumb to form, especially to the form of our physical body. We experience it as a weight, as an anchor, especially if it is sick. And here is the news: the body is always sick. We are, as Yeats said, "fastened to a dying animal." The Zen dudes put it this way: "Who is it dragging this corpse around?"
The physical body is a base of operation. An excellent base. The only base we have in this world of form. From it arises the imagination; in its vertical ascent and expansion, we co-create a new and everchanging world.
This is the second birth.
If someone chastises you again for staring out the window, do not come back into the room with its walls. Live in the realm of the boundless. Otherwise you are nothing but a breathing corpse.
