Each of us is born into a story, a story that is told and taught to us directly or indirectly by the culture into which we are born. We are taught the significance of being a lump of meat wandering the surface of a beautiful but insignificant planet of a solar system which is a tiny part of a galaxy among countless galaxies in a cosmos which can be seen as one cosmos among who knows how many in a Metacosmos beyond our understanding.
We are coming out of an age of fooling ourselves into thinking that we ditched all such stories (which is just another story). We began telling ourselves that only matter matters, that if the meat senses and their extension through machines did not pick up on it, it does not exist. “I, meat, am the determiner that this is so!”
Most found (or are finding) that the meat story is way too small. So where to now? Many say tell me the old old story, meaning the one they were born into. We can never however slide into the skin of our previousness. Our consciousness is bigger than that now.
We have options. We can continue with looking to satisfy the meat, filling its orifices with pleasures, extending its protrusions into delights. Yet the meat gets old, decays, and dies. No matter, says the meat matter, we will ride this horse down to its bitter end. Stoic with as much jism as possible.
We can open to our tribe’s cosmic story, proclaim that one as the only true one, and ignore or actively denigrate the stories of all other tribes. We see that happening, even among those who pride themselves on being “scientific” or “atheistic” or “humanistic” and so on. Our tribe’s story is the correct story and if only we could get those other bozos to admit that. But we can’t, so we damn them to their misguided hell, wrap ourselves in our own sanctimony and go on our way.
The option I prefer, being the starry-eyed dreamer that I am, is for us to honor all the stories, to sit around the Metacosmic campfire and listen, truly listen, to each other’s stories. Listen as you would be listened to. We all spring from, are springing from, the same Source. When we listen to each other, we hear the Source sourcing. We hear a Metacosmic story that sounds so familiar, so family-iar.
We are coming out of an age of fooling ourselves into thinking that we ditched all such stories (which is just another story). We began telling ourselves that only matter matters, that if the meat senses and their extension through machines did not pick up on it, it does not exist. “I, meat, am the determiner that this is so!”
Most found (or are finding) that the meat story is way too small. So where to now? Many say tell me the old old story, meaning the one they were born into. We can never however slide into the skin of our previousness. Our consciousness is bigger than that now.
We have options. We can continue with looking to satisfy the meat, filling its orifices with pleasures, extending its protrusions into delights. Yet the meat gets old, decays, and dies. No matter, says the meat matter, we will ride this horse down to its bitter end. Stoic with as much jism as possible.
We can open to our tribe’s cosmic story, proclaim that one as the only true one, and ignore or actively denigrate the stories of all other tribes. We see that happening, even among those who pride themselves on being “scientific” or “atheistic” or “humanistic” and so on. Our tribe’s story is the correct story and if only we could get those other bozos to admit that. But we can’t, so we damn them to their misguided hell, wrap ourselves in our own sanctimony and go on our way.
The option I prefer, being the starry-eyed dreamer that I am, is for us to honor all the stories, to sit around the Metacosmic campfire and listen, truly listen, to each other’s stories. Listen as you would be listened to. We all spring from, are springing from, the same Source. When we listen to each other, we hear the Source sourcing. We hear a Metacosmic story that sounds so familiar, so family-iar.
