Seams of Dreamland: 14 April 2013

My mind alternated between three states today:
1) Meditation - the state I'm usually in during meeting, where I'm focused on an image or in the Nothing-Everything Vacuum Space;
2) Observation - a state more conscious than this, where I'm observing the room or listening to ministry or thinking clear, self-directed thoughts;
3) Dream - a very trippy, uncontrolled, dreamlike state, a state less conscious than meditation. I wasn't actually falling asleep, is the funny bit - but it did reflect the unconscious state of my mind the same way dreams often do.

I started Silence in Observation for quite some time, just absorbing my place in the room and calming my spirit. There's something about just sitting still and not doing anything and not feeling like you're waiting for anything and not getting antsy at all, but just being able to sit in peace with a bunch of other people that are also sitting in peace, that gives me the greatest sense of calm and focus. It's almost necessary preparation, for me, if I'm to make true connection with the divine in this type of context.

The first image that came to me today when I entered Meditation was stitching - just a needle and off-white thread stitching seams in the fabric of my mindsurface. This certainly came up because I have been sewing everything this weekend, to the great bemusement of my friends (you better believe the gender jokes will abound if I'm doing something as domestic as repairing my friend's stuffed pony). It wasn't particularly going anywhere or even mending holes, so I just watched it for a long while.

I stepped back out into Observation after a bit with the ideas of seams and wholeness and repair and ensemble in my head. I was absent-mindedly massaging my left hand, and noticed that despite the creases, there were no seams. But I'm an ensemble, I thought. There's got to be seams. Of course! - membranes. And like the needle, they're always stitching and stitching and stitching, never ending, always in this mesmerizing cyclical pattern: the unraveling of DNA and the coding of protein and mitosis, it's all zipping and unzipping or piecing and unpiecing of two separate things held together by a thread - some bond, protein, intermolecular force. Such complex, intricate, well-networked seamwork - I mean, if an epithelial cell is, what, 30μm, that's 25,400 stitches an inch. Even in this state of serene calm, life requires that we always be buzzing and spinning around at the cellular level, as if our biology's trying to keep us from that state of separation and focus. But it's the same hunk of biology that's evolved metacognition and decided it wants to enter that state. Honestly. It boggles me every time.

The next image that came to mind was, again, a ball, but it wasn't a ball of metal, or air, or rock. Get this - it was a ball of magnetic repulsion, that feeling of density you feel when you bring two magnets of same charge close to one another. But it wasn't a magnet - just a sphere of almost impenetrably dense not-matter, about two centimeters in diameter. I was equally outside of the sphere, on top of the sphere, around the sphere, and the sphere itself, so I was able to see and feel and hear everything that happened to it simultaneously. (Perhaps it's of note that the ball had no smell or taste, though it was sensitive enough that the sense of touch seemed to replace them both.) The ball fell into a body of water - the ocean, I soon discovered, and I floated down to the bottom very slowly. It was deeper than you might imagine; it took a long time to sink that far, and I'm interested that it wasn't at all accompanied by a feeling of panic or suffocation. I did not need air - just to make sure, I breathed, and it worked, but it wasn't quite a breath, because I had no lungs. I felt the water around me, and I felt that there was energy there, and it coursed through me. I felt the lightness contributed by the tiny bubbles in the water; I felt the dim warmth of the light coming from probably 200 feet above. My senses were not normal senses - they were incredibly enhanced, incredibly sensitive. Time also also gradually became more dreamlike than normal - enormous amounts of time passed - maybe three weeks? maybe two years? - but I was aware that I had experienced it within only a few minutes.

The softness of the impact when I - or, the sphere - hit the sand was so gentle. The feeling is almost magical. The sand was so powdery and light that it would've already been soft if it were dry, but that it was wet and that I was a ball of zero-mass, zero-energy not-matter made it such a graceful landing. I'll try to describe it again, because it was so peculiar. This sphere has no clear boundaries. It is invisible except for the fact that no matter is where it is, so it's a tensionless gasless bubble of sorts in the water; it is not conscious in and of itself, but only in my ability to perceive it; it is hypersensitive; it is itself and in itself and on itself and above itself and away from itself simultaneously. So landing on the sand meant that I could feel the little rush of the sand as it moved out from under me, the few grains that floated up onto the ball and slid off of it back to the sea floor, I could feel the tiny current the ball had made as it had moved down from the surface, I could feel the softness of the texture of the sand as though it were becoming part of me - contact without any barrier at all, touch without any nerves or skin.

This is where Dream mode kicked in fully. I followed this ball for, as I mentioned, anywhere from two weeks to a couple years as it got slowly rolled out of the ocean (except that it didn't roll - it perceived the rolling without ever changing perspective) and then was present on an island where it was taken up by wind or a bird, I think, and thrown out of the air, and experienced being as if part of the air. It's more difficult for me to remember this part because it was simultaneously so quick and so very, very long. The part I remember most is definitely the rolling back to shore. When I got close, the sand turned closer to dirt, and I was in a location more like the Pacific Northwest than California. There were water bugs above me, and I - or, the ball - could feel the vibrations, the indentations, they made on the water. The most subtle ripples, but the very same energy. Feeling the little twigs, the softness of the water-logged wood, decaying there in the mud; there was a small school of fish once, and a frog several meters upstream. (It seems the ocean had turned into a stream. I hadn't noticed.) Anyways, eventually this all was interrupted by a break back into Observation.

Again, after coming from that type of state, there is this weird depth of serenity and calm and timelessness I can't quite imagine finding elsewhere. I should mention that this is not an isolated activity, that the energy I'm perceiving and the state of mind in which this is all occurring is a hyper-awareness of everything, not just of the mindworld. Although my real senses are not nearly as enhanced as the mind senses, I'm very attentive and notice the sounds of the birds, of shifting people, of the buzzing heater or water or whatever it was. So, to build on that, I'm certainly not doing this without an acute awareness of the people in the room. I feel a sort of connection. It's simply different doing this type of activity in community than otherwise. And, on top of that, I'm certainly doing this all very much in the presence of God. I feel the need to emphasize these things to make it clear that this is not an introspective process for me; I don't feel like I'm delving into myself any more than I would be if I were actually stitching bagillions of yards of black non-fabric or exploring random tropical islands or floating in endless miles of water. It feels as though I am exploring something distinctly other than myself, and that I simply get to come along. Sometimes it barely seems that I'm actually exploring anything at all, but that something else is exploring and I have access to its experience. As much as it is clearly my imagination, it is very much revelation, a state of prayer and community with God, to me.

My mind was clear and still. I just sat for a long while, and reviewed what had just happened in order to maintain the internal cohesion I felt.

I entered another strange dream state, where I was effectively Mary Poppins entering Bert's chalk world. The scene with the penguins always freaked me out to no end. The music was just very disagreeable to me. Anyways, I was all Mary Poppins-ish, petticoats and all, stepping into another world that was meant to be "lovely" and "perfect" like in the movie. I felt a bit out of place - uncomfortable - because of the frilliness. But then I sort of forgot who I was, and ended up feeding those chocolate-covered life-restoring balls from The Princess Bride to tame chipmunks, like some kind of deranged variation on Snow White. I soon snapped out of this because it felt strange and unproductive. I'm not honestly sure what chocolate miracle balls and chipmunks in particular have to say about my spiritual life, other than, once again, this type of strange, simple joy and fellowship with all living creatures, the magic/energy/goodness we share with one another. What I certainly recognize as a reflection of my subconscious is the part about gender discomfort - I have been re-evaluating what it means to be the gender I am, and recommitting to the idea that there are not two, but at least five common genders. That, however, is a topic for another post.

I came back out into another state of Observation, contemplating the various different things I had come upon earlier - the cohesion, the hypersense, the energy, the community, the all-life connection - until Merry gave vocal ministry. She sang a song: "Our life is love, and peace, and tenderness; and bearing one with another, and forgiving one another, and not laying accusations one against another; but praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand, if there has been any slip or fall." She spoke for awhile about the fact that the author had said, "Our life" instead of "Our lives" or "My life" - that this was a testament to the power of community. That such a prayer would interrupt my own moment of thankfulness for this type of community - the weird energy, presence, connectedness I've been describing - put old words to my experience. I've certainly experienced these things at Meeting, even as recently as I've started attending. I admire the authenticity and goodness of these people. It seems as though (or perhaps reveals that) the faith is as present as light to them. Meeting really is just a meeting, and the life of the group transcends Sunday morning. The work they do isn't simply a set of projects they've got on the side. It's a love and peace and tenderness that seems to flow from them as a byproduct of the system. I just love that it can work this way. I think it's brilliant.

As a final note, I can't help but be so thankful that the meeting is so inclusive of LGBT people. That LGBT identity is simply accepted as another thing about you to be celebrated, that it's not an issue to be disputed or misunderstood. Even after 9 months away from home, it continues to be the most amazing reality to me. The fact that there were two adult gay people in that meeting today and both of them are living with partners like the rest of the married folk at that meeting gives me so much hope - this feeling of deep warmth, community, and belonging. It makes me feel like I fit. It is such a release to be able to share freely my fears for a friend of mine going through issues coming out without feeling as though I need to be vague enough that I not be confronted by someone afterward to talk about my ...questionable... acceptance of homosexuality. It's still new to me that such a prayer would not lead to a heated, hourlong conversation about the seven clobber passages. It's a release to look around the circle and actually be able to say that I want to be like the people I see when I grow up. I use that phrase with intentionality - Meeting allows me to remember how young I am, how much growth I still have in store for me. Life is returned some perspective. Because I actually seem to understand my faith the way Quakers do, I don't just admire these people or occasionally like things they say, as I have in relation to other older people in my life. There's something at the core of the life of this faith that makes me want to actively try to do what I see them doing, everyday.

Love. Peace. Humility. Honesty. Kindness. Thankfulness. Smiles. Generosity. Simplicity. Intelligence. Good humor. Warm welcome. Deep service. Stability. Vision. A desire for justice and change.

These are not new ideas. Just in writing this concluding section, Hebrews 11 and Jeremiah 29:11 and Galatians 5:22-23 (not to mention the countless sermons I've heard on them) immediately came to mind. But nothing I've seen in practice at Meeting really is new at all. I do think that's the point: they're fruit of the lessons of a teacher already present within.