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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) The idea of detachment has puzzled me for a long time, mainly because its basic tenant — as pursued by many of the people I know — seems to embrace a fundamental contradiction: If the aim of religion is to foster unity, amity, peace and contentment, how can a pursuit be called religious if it divides, provokes enmity and unrest, or leaves a person dissatisfied? Yet this is exactly what occurs when a person constantly rebels against their desires: they become an individual at war. It is a kind of internal jihad — as the Islamic word “mujahiddin” actually connotes. A person who strives to be detached in this way — when the very nature of the heart is to form attachments — is committing internally what would appear as an atrocity seen from outside. If one group (the conscious mind) suppresses and dictates terms to all other groups within, this is awfully familiar to those theocracies who have already laid a bloody trail towards their God. I think humanity’s relationship with detachment has suffered from an immature reading of the Holy Texts. When people feel guilty and undeserving, they will naturally look to take this out on the person they feel is to blame: themselves. Detachment becomes a perfect weapon in that pursuit, a tool for the righteous mind to chastise the “unruly (and hated) self”. But what if the nature of detachment were actually religious? What would a religious detachment look and feel like? I’ve thought of one simple example: Let’s say that I like hot dogs. I love hot dogs, those nice, beef quarter pounders slotted in a thick potato roll. If someone tries to tell me to be detached from hot dogs, they better go someplace else, because even if I were to deny myself from such juicy beauties, the memory would still carry on in my heart. But along comes someone who offers me a perfectly cooked filet mignon steak. Now, despite my love of hot dogs, a steak is a vastly better thing. There is no way I would fill up my stomach with a hot dog, when I knew a steak was on its way. *I would even wait, passing up the hot dog, if I knew for certain such a steak was soon to come*. In this situation, my detachment from hot dogs can only be driven by a love for steak. I cannot be detached from something in the absence of a better alternative. And I must have complete faith in that alternative — feel its certainty humming within me — if detachment is to become a natural resonance of my heart. So I begin to think that truly religious detachment is not at all about denying one’s self the world, but of coming to anticipate the beauty of God — and that the specious beauties of the world sometimes hinder that perception. If a friend of mine later came along and saw me not eating my hot dog, he would say, “My goodness, how can you be so detached?” But to me it would not be detachment at all. I’m simply communing with my steak-to-be. Also, there is another aspect of detachment which has always felt like a deep conundrum to me: It is a basic feature of human psychology that to earnestly involve ourselves in something, we must care about it — but to care deeply is synonymous with being attached. A young man who is attached to his automobile will take fantastic care of it: he keeps it clean, keeps engine running, the interior vacuumed… By contrast, a person who “doesn’t really care” often ends up with a messy car and too-late trips to the mechanic. (I know I certainly fall into the latter category). I’ve seen the same thing at my work. As a programmer, I notice a vast difference between the quality of work of someone who cares about what they do, and the quality of someone “just looking to get the job done” — who only wants to create a functional solution and to move on as quickly as possible. At a cursory glance, this detached emphasis on a solution rather than its details seems best; but in actual fact, such hapdash solutions almost always come back to bite you once the initial feelings of correctness are gone. Programs written without care more often than not do not stand the test of reality. And yet, if a person cares *too much*, they agonize so dearly over every detail of the problem that they lose sight of their original purpose altogether. This leads to equally poor solutions, owing to their inherent complexity and attempts to forsee issues which never materialize. A similar situation happens if the car lover mentioned above cares *too much*: He reaches the point of never driving his vehicle at all so that he can always keep it safe. I’m not sure detachment is simply the middle road. You have to care to be involved. Heck, I have to care about something before I can even remember it. Care too little and you lose connection, resulting in a decrease in quality of attention; care too much, and you cut off perspective, decreasing quality of purpose. What is the answer? Maybe it lies in what we care about. In the case of the car, you need to care about the car, but there are two forms of caring: direct, in which your concern is for the beauty of the machine itself; and indirect, where you concern is for the suitableness of the car in a driving situation. As long as you care about driving more than what you drive, you have a decent marriage of form and function. So too, in life, we need to care about our bodies, our work, our education: but it is an indirect caring, as these are means to the realization of our soul’s ascent. It cannot be achieved through not caring about the world, but by relegating the world’s importance to its relative value. But even this can go too far: Are we to regard the people we meet as merely our stepping stones on the path to God? Such insincerity is not what other hearts are looking for. It strikes me as a delicate virtue, like a fine blade, that can cut before you realize your finger is lost.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) As I was playing chess on my favorite online server today (http://freechess.org), I found myself losing just a tiny bit less than my typical runs — where I can easily drop ten games without so much as a shred of dignity. The difference this time is that I was calm. It may sound simple, but it lead to a relation about life that connects to my attitudes in chess: In chess there is simply no room for negative emotions. Anger will not help you; frustration will certainly not help you. Being determined to drive your opponent into the dust will not even help you. In fact, such attitudes make things far worse, as they cause you to rush your judgments, underestimate your opponent, and open yourself to irrational decisions with no connection the board. If you adopt the attitude that you “should” be winning — and that whatever’s happening is somehow the universe being out to get you — well, on those days my ratings take a sharp dive. However, this is not to say that chess should be played without feeling. In fact, a fine aesthetic sense can greatly assist you, by allowing your unconscious to express its opinions through showing you that a certain position “feels wrong”. Or feelings of graciousness can lead you to appreciate your opponent’s skill — and thus permit your mind to see things from his side, sometimes making his plans much clearer to you. In short, chess is best played from a standpoint of subtle and joyful calm: not to be rushed; where winning has little emotional value; and where the game itself is worthy of a complete absorption of heart (in the form of caring about the quality of your position) and mind (by pouring through calculations, rather than ranting why things have reached their current state). I only sometimes realize how helpful this is in general — especially when dealing with people. But in chess I’ve found it’s essential. Without it, I just plain lose.

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) The more certainly we define ourselves, the more we fear an unraveling of that knowledge in the face of change and death. As I watched television today, I was struck by how constantly two themes are reiterated: doom and escape. We flirt with our fears, and then dream of keeping them away through money, distance and association. There are programs describing how wars might destroy us, or our failing energy reserves, or the climate, or nature — or the slow decline of creativity as we submit to technology. And all of these are accompanied by heart-pounding music of the sort you might find in a horror movie. The underlying theme is quite obvious: existence is coming to get you. You’ve struck a claim of self-independence against the vast improbability of time and space, and now your debt is being called. Can you run fast enough to escape it? Those who can run fastest and furthest — who gain popularity through outstanding achievement, or who imprint their memory on the minds of many — have seemed to cheat for a moment the gaping maw of oblivion. But what’s really been achieved that time will not ultimately scorn? What sort of numbers game can mankind hope to play against Eternity? I’ve watched films like *Dead Poet’s Society*, that make philosophies like *carpe deum* seem worth following. (That is, those who make today their own are able to defy the anonymity of their passing days). But even this film was not truly about the present. It seemed to imply that the present could be used to make a claim on the future: that what we do today can have a significance beyond the moment. If so, it is just another idea of escape. Time cannot be distracted, or bought, or logically disproved. Can anyone reading this even recall what their infancy was like? Or truly what their childhood was? Time has swallowed parts of each of us already. Even if a thread of continuity really remains, what we were does not. *There is no self that can know itself through every stage*. The self who engages in reflection is no longer the self of non-reflection. Then if everything we write is erased, why write at all? I think understanding this is everything. Otherwise, if there is too much investment placed on the background and future of what we do, we will end up spending most of our energy protecting what we believe can be possessed. In fact, the belief of possession is best evidenced through a need to protect, and thus *our fears themselves are of the essence of establishing a sense of permanency in time*. If we were never afraid, it might mean there was nothing substantive enough to fear losing. The more we are sure of who we are, the more daily life turns into a battle against entropy: a war with the very days of our lives, each day spent arduously defining something less durable than a mayfly. Yet it is the beauty of our nature that we flit among the mystical planes, changing in definition as rapidly as our thoughts. Like the quantum physics we develop, to reflect upon our being is to change the nature of its subject. A watch is named because it marks time, not because of particular times it has or will show. I think an answer to the rabid fear I see on television and in society must begin by letting go. To acknowledge that physics has not described our universe; that psychology has not explained the mind; that history has not ever told us what really happened; that sociology cannot define cultures. Whatever role these ideas play in our development, the actual reality of the present moment is forever beyond classification. It flirts with death. It is unstable, unsure, and largely ignorant. We do not know what happiness is, or how to find it. We are never sure of the meaning of life, or of our role in it. The more certainly we attempt to describe these things to ourselves, the more tightly we create our bonds of fear. And thus conversely: the more powerless we know ourselves to be at describing and knowing reality, the more we are ready to experience and accept whatever it actually is. Yet even at the heart of such impenetrable mysteries: this breeze is indescribably fine; these words please me to write them; and a fine bed is waiting for me.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) As I pondered the story of Khidr again (search for “Khidr” here if some background is needed), a new thought came to me: The actions of Khidr are used to demonstrate the full reach of God’s wisdom whenever He undertakes an action. However, the Prophets of God — who represent His Vicegerents on Earth — never act in a manner similar to Khidr. That is, Khidr does as He does because God’s wisdom is deeper than we can fathom; yet the doings of the Prophets of God fall mostly within the limits of man’s comprehension: They by-and-large refrain from acts which would seem unjust to our eyes. Why does Khidr appear to act as a free agent — his actions framed only within God’s understanding — while the Prophets follow a pattern of action mostly in conformance with our own understanding? My first thought was that we wouldn’t listen if They did otherwise: if They acted beyond our grasp. But then again, we don’t really listen anyway. And moreover, we’re repeatedly warned against judging Them according to our own moral standards, because such judgments can only confirm as truth the same truths they were founded on to begin with. Such a cycle simply does not allow for the entirely new. It’s quite a puzzle, actually. We develop a model of life based on the hodgepodge we were brought up with, knowing full well it’s riddled with holes by the time we’re teenagers. We patch it up with our own experience, we mend it and sew the tears, trying to reach an acceptable compromise with our fellow beings by the time we’re adults. Then a Messenger comes with something completely new — however much the core principles might remain the same. It’s too dangerous just to replace everything we’ve worked on, because who knows what the end result will be? So we cautiously compare note by note, to see if the effects of the new teachings will be profitable or damaging. But here lies the problem: our understanding of what is profitable or damaging is a key concept of our own morals! We’ll only let through what we can recognize as good — even though “recognition” requires that what we’re looking at *not* be new at all. The end result is that nothing really new can enter our lives until we accept a bit of madness and try it, damn the consequences. Yet not every “Messenger” is what they claim to be. Arbitrarily substituting moral codes, without fully knowing the merits of the author, can be worse than never accepting anything new in the first place. It’s quite a risk, causing many to avoid the problem and go neither route: just stick with what mostly works — even if that something is barely suitable for the ever-changing times we live in. Were Khidr to cross our paths at some point, He would forcibly insert the good, acting in ways to defy every code we know that God’s Will might work toward some unseen benefit. We would have to reject Khidr, constantly, in direct proportion to our faith in our private credo. Only a faithless man would laugh no matter the outcome. The Messengers, however, cross our paths but do not forcibly insert Their Teachings. They craft them into a pill we can actually swallow — if we put a will behind it. But do we? And how do we ferret it out from what everyone else would love to shove down our throats? Having the freedom to override moral codes would be the fantasy of any despot. So maybe the Messengers act within our bounds, not because the Will of God is constrained by us, but in order to make it possible. Perhaps the truths we receive are in direct proportion to our willingness to be offended by the pursuit of them. We may all be standing at the Ocean of Life, but each has his own straw. O Son of Beauty! By My spirit and by My favor! By My mercy and by My beauty! All that I have revealed unto thee with the tongue of power, and have written for thee with the pen of might, hath been in accordance with thy capacity and understanding, not with My state and the melody of My voice. — Bahá’u’lláh

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) A while back, I wrote about being content with the will of God under all circumstances — a state of being referred to in Arabic as being “raazi”. But peaceful though such a state must be, it is by no means the height of contentment. One may be accepting, as Job was, no matter the trials sent by God; but to experience every moment as the best possible world is another thing entirely. The contentment of being *raazi* is one of peace. One may not know how things will work out, but the soul is assured of the hand of God behind all things. Or one may not have everything he wants, but in his heart, he knows that even poverty can lead to riches. Beyond this is another state, called being *ghani*. To be *ghani* implies a wealth taken to the point of excess. One who knows this kind of contentment does not view poverty as a soulful emptiness; rather, to him the greatest emptiness is an abounding fullness. It is not a condition of peace, but of a joy which threatens all stability. If God who wears the cloak of the world in order to reveal Himself, then those who are *raazi* know it; but those who are *ghani* see it with their very eyes. Becoming *raazi* is one of the powers of faith, when one’s inward vision penetrates the Unseen. It’s like the peace of a farmer who has planted all of his crops, knowing from experience what must happen in time. It doesn’t matter that the seeds lie quiet under the ground; the farmer’s awareness spans time, it is not confined by the immediate. The deeper and fuller one’s awareness of such unseen processes, the less complaint there will be over particular, sudden forms. Being *ghani* is being present at the time of harvest. The real question being: why should time be necessary? Between the seed’s being planted, and fruit falling from the tree, our bodies must endure a requisite lapse of time. But the soul is, in theory, free of such limitations; its sentiments need not be dictated by the body. The two move in separate realms, although it seems natural for the body to set the pace of things. Time is like a someone telling a joke; once you get the punchline, you’ll laugh from the first word the next time you hear it. I believe God is unveiling Himself to us through the mechanism of the world — that the world exists to suit the nature of our understanding; but once we grasp where this tale is headed, we needn’t wait for all of the particulars. There can be a moment of insight, at which point further explanation is unnecessary. From that moment on there can be direct relation, like a painter with his brush once he grasps the principles of the art.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) I have been thinking lately that material things satisfy us only because their reality draws from a deeper Source. What brought this to a point for me is a statement by Bah’u’llh, where He projects God as saying to humanity: O Son of Light! Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit. This is of the essence of My command, therefore turn unto it. This is one of my favorite statements of His, and I say it to myself each night before going to bed. What does He mean to “Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit”? It would seem to suggest dispensing with all consciousness of the world, to reach a purer consciousness of “My spirit”. But in other places He rejects asceticism entirely, so I don’t believe He means for us to turn away from the one reality we know, to point ourselves toward one we can know nothing of. I’m beginning to think that by “spirit” He means that which makes this world come to life (in the same way our own spirit makes our bodies come to life): it’s Quality. After all, there is somehow a difference between a mere collection of atoms and a *refreshing* glass of water. Material forms have a capacity to lift our spirits, but my question is: how do they have this capacity? I understand that light stimulates photoreceptive cells in my eye, which stimulate electrochemical signals throughout the neurons of my brain — but at what point does this chain of events end in the experience of beauty? What final chemical, or electric charge, is it that comprises the transporting feel of great art? I think these base media are simply carriers. They bring to us a message — albeit filtered by the limits of each medium. But no matter how reduced from its original perfection Quality may become — whether in the form of a drink of water, a painting, a chocolate bar — the underlying character of its manifestation is always the same. Take light, for example. Most of our light originates from a blinding source too far away to grasp. It illuminates everything indiscriminately, yet is reflected from each place according to the nature of that place. Although the manifestations of light are unique in themselves, the underlying properties of its illimunation remain the same. That is, some places reflect the light in a manner closer to its pure form, such as mirrors, while others absorb most of its energy, presenting us with a silhouette of darkness. Yet what reaches our eyes in every case are those original quanta of energy from our faraway star. However filtered, the essential properties of the light remain undisturbed: in effect, everything we see when we go outside is the Sun, seen through a lens of Earthly form. Now if we are beings meant to commune with the potentialities of God’s spirit, then it is with that Spirit we should form our closest bond. Continuning the analogy of light to spirit: A painter may use a brush and canvas, but his real task is carving the light, so as to present what it’s capable of revealing. The pen and paper are not significant in themselves — however important in their role as media — it’s the Reality conveyed by their means which is the *raison d’etre*. One could even suggest that such a being discount the medium entirely, until they have transcended its utility — beyond, to what it serves to manifest. “Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit”. Bah’u’llh statements now suggest to me that all things reflect His spirit, but we should never get caught up in the things themselves. Rather, penetrate them, move with the eye of the soul beyond their immediate appearance, until one reaches what they were created to convey. Another example of this is found in watching a television program. Assume it’s a good program; a great program! Something which moves you and causes you to experience a genuine beauty. First, there is the television signal transmitting the program. Since it’s invisible to you, there’s no way for it to reach you or touch you. A television is required. Thus, by necessity, we bring in the physical medium of the television. One may even love their television, but in fact it only serves to bring those programs into the scope of your vision. Let’s say the television is a bit old: it has scratches on the screen, it’s dusty. As you watch, you might get distracted by these things. You may want another television altogether. But if you concentrate on the program you’re watching, it’s funny how all these minor flaws quickly disappear. Soon, no matter how tiny or beat up or black and white your television may be, it becomes all about the program. Yet even the program is only a form of expression. There are sets, actors, dialog, etc. One could get caught up even here: attracted to a beautiful actor, disturbed by another’s voice. But if the material of the program is really worth it, even these are passed in your mind: you focus deeper, to what the program is about, to the ultimate message beneath. In the end, if all of these stages of manifestation are passed beyond, and the heart is filled and the soul informed, then all of these physical realities will have served their purpose: of bringing you into connection with something you deeply desire. To get there requires bridging each of the gaps placed in your way, all of the physical obstacles in the way of spiritual experience. But it’s not that these obstacles don’t belong between you and the experience — they are even necessary to it! But depending on your point of view, they may or may not get in the way. I think what Bah’u’llh says in this quote is that the world is only a vehicle, much like an Existential Television. It uses matter and form to present a message to us, for the sake of our souls. How much we receive of that Message is directly up to us, and deeply we choose to look.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) It strikes me that the private destiny of each individual is something other than achieving the perfections he imagines for himself. My first clue to this has been the fact that I’ve yet to meet a single person — of any age or level of achievement — who believes they deserve Heaven on their own merit. That is, if such were the measure of spiritual success, I have found none who would grant themselves that reward. How can it be fair that we remain perpetually undeserving? One of the most widespread issues I encounter is people believing they are not good enough, that they do not deserve happiness in life. This mentality presents a very specific picture: That things begin in a crude state, and since this crude state must be overcome to enter a perfected state, only those efforts which bend the crude toward the perfected are acceptable. Anything else is “sin”, an opportunity for advancement missed, a betrayal of promise. However, something in our nature rebels against this philosophy. We know that a joyful condition is better than sorrow; we see how an hour spent in joy can yield ten times its output in work. Even adults at a regular job requires breaks and diversions, lest the mind become dull. If I put this aside for a moment: perhaps Heaven desires something other than completeness; an aspect of what we’re given — rather than what we acquire — as our key to that Place. This became clearer for me recently because of a very strong dream. It made such an impression on me, during the dream itself, that for several dreams afterward I found myself telling different characters about what I had heard, repeating it to myself so I would remember it after I awoke. I was in a terribly dangerous swamp. There were traps everywhere, and all kinds of fatal mistakes to be made. There were dinosaurs, and huge crocodiles, and deadly plants. Somehow, in the middle of it all sitting on a log, was God, in the form of the actor Alan Rickman (I’d just seen the wonderful movie, “Something the Lord Made”, whose title itself is a commentary on what I learned). Anyway, when I walked up to God, He said that there was only one way to escape from my predicament and enter a better place. I asked, “What’s that?” He said, “You must bring Me something I do not already have.” I thought about His request for a while and came up with several ideas: love, happiness, independence, virtue, etc. But I could tell that none of these were close to the mark. Then it hit me — I could tell by the feeling which came over me that I had found the right answer. It was: my limitations. My limited nature was the one thing God did not possess for Himself; and to offer this to Him was the reason I’d been created. Alan just smiled, and the dream moved on to another. After I woke up, the realization didn’t seem quite as intense or special, but it left me with a gnawing sense there was something behind it. That is, it’s not so much the perfections I develop in this life which matter — such as becoming knowledgable, skilled, or accomplished — but the depth of my appreciation for my limits. To the extent that I discover within them a special beauty. It’s like that saying where the greatest strength is knowledge of one’s weaknesses. This put me in mind of a prayer by Bah’u’llh, where He writes: … Thou hast ordained that the utmost limit to which they who lift their hearts to Thee can rise is the confession of their powerlessness to enter the realms of Thy holy and transcendent unity, and that the highest station which they who aspire to know Thee can reach is the acknowledgment of their impotence to attain the retreats of Thy sublime knowledge…

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) The following entry is little more than a fantasy, but I use it to help place some of the experiences I’ve had in my life. I don’t begin to claim it holds any truth; it simply helps me wonder. Have you ever been somewhere and suddenly had a sense of the way events might go? And then been frustrated, not because they turned out that way, but because you knew it would happen? It’s almost as if time gives you a little taste, and then that flavor fulfills itself. Or maybe it’s just subtle clues the subconscious tunes in to. Or have you been talking with someone, and briefly certain images flit through your mind, sometimes with word associations. They feel unbidden. Was it a spark of creativity, or an impression of some kind? So you speak it out loud, and the other person thinks you read their mind. You don’t know if you just picked up on the idea, or had the idea yourself and somehow projected it. Or the phenomenon of thinking about a person and then hearing them call on the phone shortly after. I’ve heard this so many times from my friends it seems commonplace now. One friend even said she knew whenever I came to visit — it was usually out of the blue — because she always dreamt about it the night before. Or when I finish matching a film where incredible things are possible, I notice my reflexes and coordination become much smoother. I’m able to take my car keys out of my pocket and insert them into the lock, almost without looking in one fluid motion. How different from those days when nothing seems to go right. Is this me being more confident, or is “life” cooperating somehow because my outlook has been subtly changed? These events only touch the surface of the strange things I’ve experienced. They cause me to think about the nature of human consciousness, and whether we may be part of something larger, which spans our existence across barriers even of space and time. I think every part of the universe serves as a model for the whole. That is, each thing symbolizes an aspect of the underlying pattern. An example of this is the way larger systems are composed of smaller ones. We have cells in our bodies, which are made of molecules, they of atoms, then of quarks, etc. Or going higher, we have social networks, then planets, solar systems, galaxies, galactic clusters, etc. But these are only spatial delineations. What if there are bridges between consciousnesses as well? No one part of our body may be said to have awareness — no more so than a single neuron represents the whole mind — yet the author of this entry is certainly aware. My whole being produces a coherent aspect, which I refer to as my self. Such synergy could represent a deeper pattern. What if, just as my cells comprise a body and mind who is self-aware, many minds likewise participate in a higher order which has an awareness of its own kind? And these together, and so on, until there is a master consciousness whose waking dream is the pith of existence? This is something I would call the “Ur-soul”, which we are all a part of even while we remain distinct — in the same way my liver’s cells are a part of my existence, yet exist separately in themselves. But that is just an example in space. Consider time: as an infant I was very different from the person I am now. My childhood — the *presence* of my thinking during childhood — is impossible to recall now. I cannot see and feel things the way I did then, when the whole world almost fit in my neighborhood. So too with the teenage years, which were filled with a turmoil I simply don’t experience now. Who were those people? They were all separate, in a way; but they also contributed to this present whole. If I can be divided in both space and time, where is the “me”? Where do I begin and end? If I refer to myself, am I a part of something, or a culmination of parts? What if I am all of these at once? I think the development of individual awareness is a part of who are. However, believing in a concrete individuality is too much. It’s like that liver cell believing it exists independently from its host. Yet this is the way our selves function: we disbelieve we are merely abstractions of a shifting order — a kind of wave-function riding on unfathomed waters. We envision ourselves wholly isolated; and this, I think, denies us a true consciousness of what we are. In Zen I once encountered the idea of mutual realities. Take a rain umbrella, for example. Rain umbrellas only exist because of rainfall, even though such umbrellas still exist when there is no rain. As an object, it can be said to have a separate existence from its purpose; but in truth, it does not. If there were never any rain, there would be no such umbrellas. They exist as a part of “rain” — in the form of our desire to be protected from it. In a sense, they *are* the rain, in just one of its many aspects. Because where does the rain begin and end? Is it only a single drop? That would not be rain. Is it many drops? How many? Must they fall from the sky? If so, then the cloud is also a part of what “rain” is. Since we have added another object to the idea of “rain”, where does it end? In fact, there is an entire complex, too diverse to describe, which comprises the experience we abstract as “rain”: the smell, the umbrellas, the wet dogs, soggy shoes, the approaching thunder, the nights when we sit watching fat drops pelt the window. Rain does not begin or end anywhere; it is none of these individual objects: it exists as the entire sum. And yet even there it does not end. There are still many experiences for us to know, each of which will be individual, and will add to our sense of “rain”. So too with the concept of “self”. Our attention rests in the optic nerve, but we are as much who we feel ourselves to be as we are the experiences that give us those feelings. To feel the wind on one’s face is to be, for that moment, a union of the two: for what kind of experience could we have if there were no stimulus of experience? If there were no wind, no memory of wind, no nothing of any kind, what “self” would there be but mere potential? In deconstructing my self this way, I mean to suggest that our boundaries are not as clear as we feel them to be. We are conditioned to separate our thoughts in terms of time and space, but these are only delineations. What is the truth of our reality, and the realities we are a part of? Do I sense people’s thoughts sometimes because of a particular sensitivity — or because we are individual parts of one whole, like the cells that make up a larger organism? Are there even higher orders of consciousness, the awareness of which requires us to transcend the confines of selfhood? When I relax my thoughts, there seems to be a larger flow I join up with, something only loosely affiliated with my present understanding. It is not that I see with other eyes; it’s more like I begin to hear a song echoing from many places — a song which makes its own kind of sense. Things begin to taste “right” or “wrong”, in ways I cannot explain; as if there were a greater harmony, a grander scale of happiness, than what my single body can feel alone. And if goes on like this, without limit, until the best I can do is abstract the whole under a single name — a global entity with its own purpose, not possessing singular boundaries — whose reality is expressed by and throughout the whole, each part having its own purpose and yet summing to produce the whole. What is this? Do I exist to be a part of its self-knowing? To contemplate and feel the Ur-soul?

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) Several times now in the past few year, I’ve encountered a particular argument: Whether it is nobler to forgo faith in any higher agency, so the mind may remain free and clear; or to surrender judgment if one believes they’ve discovered a higher Power. To maintain freedom and aloofness seems to strengthen the individual; while giving up everything — even the mind — in the name of love seems positively transcendent. In one case, recently, a person asked whether Baha’is should accept the authority of their Prophet, Bah’u’llh, utterly and without question. To do so implies accepting even those things we have not yet understood — things that have not seen the light of reason. This is especially true since so many of Bah’u’llh’s texts remain untranslated into English so far, and who knows what they might contain? But if I understood him correctly, his argument was not against Bah’u’llh and religion, but rather utter resignation to any authority. This impairs human development because it closes the mind, truncates judgment, and relativizes the meaning of “truth” to that authority. The example was given of resigning in the present to dictates whose future character cannot be known. Using Bah’u’llh as an example of this was a good one, since His believers presuppose perfection on the part of that authority, thus condoning any and every prescribed future action no matter its appearance or consequences — because that guidance is “perfect”. This removes judgment and understanding from the human realm and places them wholly on the altar of a chosen God. The danger I believe he picked up on is that our relationship to “God” is always framed within the confines of human understanding. For example, Bah’u’llh’s pronouncements were rendered in human language, and must be applied by human minds. No matter the perfection of His original intent, its expression and realization must occur within the fallible realm of a human translation of that intent into behavior. Because the Bah’ community believes their Source to be perfect, they may implicitly ascribe a transmission of that quality of perfection down to the ultimate acts themselves. This phenomenon has been used throughout history to condone the worst violence against humanity, since the perfection of the Source was believed to reflect itself in the perfection of the believer’s interpretations, and then to the perfection of the believer’s actions. Thus we have the idea of a believer “doing God’s will”, even if that will gets translated into putting thousands of innocent people to death. I think that to believe, once one has “found” Bah’u’llh, that they may submit their will entirely and be forever guided on the straight path, is just not possible given our human condition. What I mean is, even if one has found Bah’u’llh, they have not found Bah’u’llh; even if one has discovered a perfect testament to God’s nature, they have not read it; and even if Bah’u’llh’s laws are perfect for the ordering of society, we have not begun to follow them, and never will. By this I do not mean that Bah’u’llh is fallible or His laws are incomplete, but rather that our understanding is fallible and our application of those laws is incomplete. The perfection of a Manifestation’s authority simply cannot survive crossing the boundary between the divine realm and a human one. We will corrupt whatever we are given the moment we hear it. Even using the word “God” is a corruption, since an infinite being cannot be bound by our terminology or understanding. We just don’t know what we’re talking about; we don’t know Who Bah’u’llh is; and we don’t know what a single one of His words really means. What this requires of the believer is that he never cease in his pursuit after the truth. Every day, it’s possible to “find” a Bah’u’llh whose reality one was unaware of the day before. In a sense, a believer cannot “belong” to a faith and remain honest to his nature. The Faith he belongs to on any given day is subject to his own immaturity on that day, and will not be the same as tomorrow’s Faith — if he continue ardently in his search. And yet, there is hope in this. What religion requires of us is that we grow and develop our understanding, not that we close our minds and relax in the perfection of our leader. His perfection is not accessible to us; this is the meaning of having imperfections. “The imperfect eye sees imperfections”, said `Abdu’l-Bah. So too, when we read the Writings of Bah’u’llh, or listen to the decisions of the House of Justice, we are seeing a divine light filtered by the flaws of our own eye. What we really see is a product of our own selves, and we may never wholly trust in such mirages. What this requires of the believer is faithfulness. Faith is not properly a noun, as in a place where the heart may dwell. It is an adjective, describing the terms of our relationship to God. Compare this to the old saying, “keeping faith”, meaning that one remains true to the spirit of an agreement. Our faith in God means that we trust in the perfection of His Messenger, and continue to seek the meaning of that perfection throughout the rest of our lives. It’s in believing that we’ve “found” what we’re looking that we become doomed. So, if one no longer calls themselves a “Baha’i”, I would say bravo. I have never been a “Baha’i”. That word identifies a concept whose meaning is not only highly personal from day to day, but whose stasis is foreign to my nature. What I am is a seeker after truth, and I inhale from the fragrance of Bah’u’llh’s words the fragrance of truth. This is why I pursue them, and continue to pursue, hoping to become transformed by an ever developing understanding and application of His teachings. And if He commands things beyond my understanding, what then? Do I judge them according to what I understand so far, or do I surrender my judgment and follow anyway? And yet, what would I be judging them with, and what would I be surrendering to? Both options exist within my own understanding. Both will be wrong. So what is a believer to do? I guess what I’m saying is that we are always “wrong”, but this does not mean we cannot be faithful. Religion is about love, not absolute truth. Be true to your heart, be honest, be good as far as you know how — and keep at it. I have never aimed at forming the world into a certain image. I think this is ridiculous. What I do aim at is increasing the joy in my heart, and being conducive to happiness and the well-being of society as I understand it. Of course, Bah’u’llh’s Writings and Institutions are my guide in this search and I follow them as closely as I’m able. Yet I will always be wrong in the sense of knowing truth; I will never be a true follower of my love. Yet I will always have that love, and the truth of my Beloved One. So yes, I believe in something I can neither know nor understanding. All I have to go on is the joy of my pursuit, in much the same way we locate a fire by following its heat. And yet, whoever said I was looking for something that could fit within the confines of my mind? Even my own heart does not fit in such a confined space! What I am seeking is a mystery whose nature engulfs me; and whenever I’m immersed in its waters, I feel my purpose — to know Him, and to worship Him.

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) A few days ago I wrote that the essence of morality lies in valuing life, since we tend to do right by what we care about most — which is another way of saying that real morality starts with love. But while this describes the what, it does not address the how. Where does our sense of value come from? How can we value ourselves more — as the basis of integrity — when self-loathing is so much the norm? What makes it even more difficult is a principle I’ve noticed in my own nature, and which I believe to be universal: that love cannot be governed by will. We simply do not choose our interests. This principle would seem to suggest that morality is not a matter of choice — but that isn’t quite what I mean. A better way to put it is that one cannot develop his morality directly. Any attempt to do so involves duplicity, as we start patterning our actions differently from our interests. We do one thing, but in our hearts we want to do another. Yet the morality I dream of begins in the heart, not in the mind; it does not require an inner conflict — since I believe love cannot be fostered by any kind of violence. This means that true morality — which proceeds from one’s inward being — must be developed indirectly. There is another variable we *can* tweak, and which *is* subject to our will. And if our heart is driven by what we love most, this variable must be: to look deeper into the nature of things, until we discover a more universal love. First of all, it strikes me as very odd that we cannot choose what we love. Love is such an amazing source of energy and motivation — it allows us at times to completely transcend our limitations. A person in love is devoted to his object; he draws on reservoirs of energy that the will has no access to. Love, in effect, ignites our being and makes our potential come alive. It’s almost as if human beings are a kind of appliance: once we find the right socket to plug into, everything changes. We enter a new realm of being. I think we were designed to operate on this level, and that the meager energies we possess without it are only there to help us to get there. Once we encounter this torrent of love, it is in our interest to channel and heighten the experience, much like focusing light into a beam. Only if a person is unaware that this can be achieved does he ignore it. Otherwise, why content one’s self with less, when more can be had? If we know the first level of something is good, and the second level is better, who will not reach for it if he knows it’s close? That is the role of morality, I believe: a set of guidelines to enhance our connection to love. Take the morality of an engineer. He uses math and measurement to decide whether a certain design is “good” or not. He defines goodness by the fitness of the end product; but only if cares about that product will he strive to use the guidelines to their utmost; only if cares can they act to enhance his connection through the perfection of the final result. And when it’s done, and done well, he will experience the joy of using it for its intended purpose. In this way, the refinement of his actions bonds him with his goal. Since morality is aimed at the beloved, we need to see our goal clearly in order to make proper use of what is moral. The variable we can control is our vision. What is it that we want? Have we looked everywhere to find it? For example, a person may look for someone to deeply love, but will alone cannot manifest that person, not even among those he knows, since will-power does not determine love — and without love there is no basis for that kind of relationship. He may act (pretend morality) toward someone he knows, as if doing so will create what he seeks, but this is a lie. In order for genuine actions of love to appear (real morality), the beloved must be found. Since love cannot be changed, what he must do is to seek out more people — to increase his vision by discovering more possibilities. Doing this is well within his power, and only by operating at that level can he ever hope to act honestly as one in love. I think spiritual morality is no different. We possess a set of guidelines for living whose purpose can only be reasonably defined in terms of the Beloved. Without that essential piece, they are just actions serving as an end in themselves. Find the Beloved, however, and they become extremely pragmatic, being most effective ways for us to gain closer proximity. So the “how”, from all of this, is in effect education: to sharpen our vision; see more clearly, more deeply, more broadly. There exist certain things, revealed in nature — whether it be objects, people, ideas, feelings — that are able to engender a spontaneous, radical response in the human spirit. Morality comes into play both at the beginning to help us find it, and afterwards to draw us nearer. Furthermore, I believe — from reading certain mystical texts — that the whole of life is much more than we take it to be. In this sense, education means unwrapping the veils that obscure its true nature, until we find that the Beloved is all. Which is also the only way that human beings can ever act morally towards all with honesty.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) There is a phenomenon of consciousness which I’ve observed to be the cause of much heartache in the field of religious pursuit. It is something which causes the believer to strictly divide in his mind between the earthly reality that appears here, and the supposed heavenly realities which await him at the end of his trials. This fissure in his view of the world causes him to maintain a harsh distinction between where he is — his current state — and where God is believed to dwell. Always He seems infinitely far off, never close, never “as near as our life’s vein”. This attitude is not simply a mental position, but a fissure at the heart of our spiritual awareness. No wonder so many faiths equate reunion with their Lord to the ending of the world: more than a few of them view this fault as an essential failing of reality itself, a mistake destined to be corrected. We were meant to live as a unity, but something wicked crept into man so that for now, we dwell apart in this mortal penance. But what is this belief, and where did it come from? This “split” envisions a barrier between ourselves and our Goal so real, our belief in this life as partitioned off is complete. Of those who pray, who hasn’t said a prayer and wondered if it reached its destination, as if the syllables themselves had faced a terrible hike of some kind? We’ve been conditioned by our experiences in space and time to imagine most concepts in terms of scale, measure, duration, etc. Even if we think of “eternity”, we picture it as an unending duration. Things exist in compartments with clear divisions, such as the “universe” (though we’ve never seen its end), and “Heaven” as a place we go to after we die. and never fully approving of who we’ve become, since where we are is never where He is. The failure to satisfy an Entity Whose motives and thoughts we simply cannot imagine causes a persistent sense of separation — a rift in our consciousness of God, which I have come to call “the split”. Depsite its ill effects, the Split seems to be a necessary stage in the development of consciousness. As children, we begin to realize that we are not our parents, and that our wishes are not the same as the wishes of existence. Here the “we/they” gap begins, but from there it is vastly widened: not only are we different from the others we meet, but we begin to perceive a difference between who we are, and who we had the potential to be. As soon as we’re scolded for doing something wrong, for example, there is presented to us an image of ourselves having not done the thing in question — and alternate path, so to speak. This makes sense of the question, “Why did I do that?”, as if some greater I had had the choice between two paths and the questioner is only the result of one of them.

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) If a perfect Creator loves His creation, can it be possible for us, as witnesses, to impute to Him a lacking heart? And yet, even in my own relationship to God I have found deep-welling evidence of such beliefs; that in the end I’ve been left out to dry in consequence of my incompleteness, my short-comings, or whatever. But I wish to argue the other side for a moment. Anyone who has had parents knows that love often fails to manifest itself as what we desire or expect. It can come in forms that leave us in tears throughout the night. Or if love shows us a grim, or quiet face — perhaps for long days — it doesn’t imply abandonment, or flagging concern. It would seem that to properly arraign the qualities of a lover, we must examine the case from his point of view. An action leading even to our deaths may be perceived differently by the affected souls afterward. Of course — in the case of human lovers — the context itself may be flawed; but when we consider the issue of a perfect Lover, it refers to a context beyond our ken. Such was the mission of Khidr: to deliver those missives whose contents must sting the eye. We see it happening all around us, in the wretched conditions of the world, the fearful nature of the future, the frustrations that assail us from every side. We might even come to the conclusion that there is no love here; that to suggest it is ludicrous! That a hopeful Creator may have brought us into being, but His reactions since have shown His discontent. This was the state of my own mind up to the summer of 2002. Religion had come to feel like an oppressive duty back then, and I was very dissatisfied with the community I found myself in. There was no shortage of people to commiserate with, either. It seems most people are dissatisfied with a great many things about Life, and the way it’s been setup. Anyway, I was going through a divorce at the time, and my heart was bleak. I recall driving down a beautiful country road in Tucson, Arizona, with my windows down despite the blistering heat. To feel the hot breath of the wind somehow made me feel closer to living. I was thinking then of my religious community, and how angry I’d become that we weren’t connecting like true friends. This, after all, is the essence of community — fellowship — but I was feeling little of it. It seemed that for lack of anything better, we’d fallen on administration and proclamation in order to imagine we were doing good for the world. But if religion can’t unite the hearts of individual people, how can any plan for global unity succeed? As I was thinking these dark thoughts, a flash came to me from nowhere — it felt almost like a thunderclap. I was instantly excited, and my heart began to beat faster. It was one of those moments where your mind has learned something, but the slowness of conscious thought has yet to reveal it to you. You *know* what you’ve learned, but the you that regards yourself still doesn’t know what you know. I mention this realization because it was epochal for me. It drew a dividing line: between my experience of religion as a thing of chore and drudgery, to a vast, enchanting realm of possibilities. It was at that moment I became aware of a Life within life, of a secret world lying just beyond perception — a journey of vision, where the ordinary is transformed into the miraculous merely through a process of discovery. In short, this was my own personal awakening, in the midst of such troubling thoughts. For what I had realized in that brief instant was this: In order for me ever to love my community, I had to love them for who they were. Not love them in the sense of nurturing them to become something else, but love them to the extent that I would never ask them to change. If all the world experienced stasis, my feelings would not hold their breath. Love is timeless, unconcerned, perfectly undemanding. If they change for the better, it would be to their benefit; but all I should want is the honor to know them. This left my heart racing because it was a truly novel concept for me. Until then, I had always thought in terms of change: of the future, of progress, of results. If our faith was about world unity, I wanted to see it happen. Anything less than unity everywhere was an affront to my dedication. But this was an utterly different philosophy. It said that world unity exists the moment you are unified with the world. That love is not a question of numbers or scale. World unity *is* that essential feeling of joy in simply knowing the people around you. Once this is found, nothing else is needed. And there exists no better way to spread it than by the words and deeds most natural to it: appreciation, assistance, love. Now, achieving *this* was a life’s work worth pursuing. Just as that thought started to trickle down into my real consciousness (as opposed to my theoretical models of the world), another bolt struck, maybe ten minutes later. It was connected, and I had to think for a moment to discover what it was. It affected me even more powerfully than the last. It was this: Just as love means never asking my community to change, never expecting or demanding them to be anyone other than who they are, *so love means I would also behave this way toward myself*. Even more strongly than my dissatisfaction with the community, I realized, was my horrid dissatisfaction at my own self. If I ever thought they were undeveloped, imperfect or lacking, I had leveled the same accusations at myself a hundred times over. However, I knew that it wasn’t personal change for change’s sake I wanted, but a change that would result in true love; but how could that happen if I began by disapproving of my own self? It undermines my capacity to love, if my own home is built up of frustration. Love has to begin at the beginning; it doesn’t wait for things to end; it is a thing of process, not product. Seeing that hatred of my present self cannot ever produce a loving nature, I saw that my frustration with the community was just another part of “my way of doing things”. In all things, I was proceeding toward spirituality by loathing the material; I was hunting the future by wishing the present gone; I was longing for perfection by hoping the imperfect would finally disappear. My own faith had become a negative journey. I didn’t want the world to be a better place; what I really wanted was to magically find myself someplace else. The opposite of such a negative approach, of course, is the positive: to begin here and now. To make spirituality a thing of the present and to regard love as something that only ever *is*. It is not a concept, or project, or ideal to hope for. Love is what you feel when you see someone at the grocery store buying candy, and it makes you happy to think of the pleasure they’ll feel when they get home and eat it. Love is that radiating power you send into other living beings, simply by wishing them well. Love doesn’t ask for another to become a Baha’i, or this person to stop being a Muslim, or for anyone to change anything about themselves whatsoever. Love is the feeling you receive from other people when they honestly enjoy who you are, today. This discovery alone would have rocked my world — and it continues to do so, as I struggle between ancient programming and new patterns of thought — but it was followed by a third and final bolt. This final realization was the strongest of the three, and in a way was something my soul had been longing for for a long time. You see, until that time I had always felt extremely distant from God. As if He weren’t even in town; I would ring up the address, but nobody ever answered. I had been left to face life on my own, with no other purpose than the steady arrival of tomorrow. My third understanding forged a bond which has continued until now, and remains the core of my religious experience. Everything else is secondary — a part of the journey — but this is its pith and purpose: As I have described love and its character above, so God loves each and every one of us, always and without exception. From the misbegotten soldier who kills wantonly, to the nuns who expend their days in service of the poor. God loves without reservation, without limit — simply put, He loves perfectly. His is an unfailing love. To know in my heart, not just my thoughts and hopes, that God loved me so truly, was to *know* that He loved me as I was, on that day and every day since. This thought immediately caused a feeling somewhat like warm liquid to well up in my chest, which spread outward to my arms and legs and my head. It felt somewhat like taking a warm bath on a holiday, or resting on the beach during vacation, or having a person you love put their arms around you. It was this feeling that carried me through that divorce, and in fact became my entire reason for continuing my relationship with God. Prayer became a time to focus on that connection, and to feel its warmth unhinging my tensions. Even now, whenever I grow sad or feel alone, I recall that unerring bond and I always feel the same love pour into me. It was nothing other than the simple knowledge that a loving Creator does indeed love His creation — always, and unfailingly. It was only those three thoughts — all connected, reflecting on each other — but it rewrote my understanding of faith and the meaning of religion. It is about *you*, dear reader; not your affiliation, or who you donate to, or what kind of afterlife you expect. Personally, I don’t care if you never believe He loves you, because it’s *you* that He loves — not your belief. Your knowing it is for your own sake, but not something He requires to love you — just as opening your eyes is something you do on your own, which the sun and the wind in the trees have never asked of you.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) Someone asked: *Suppose someone investigates a matter, sincerely and honestly, to the best of her ability and with what resources are available to her. After considering things, she forms a conclusion as best she can. What happens if her honest investigation leads her to a conclusion which is not in accord with what most Bahá’ís believe, or which even seems to conflict with some statement of one of the central figures of the Bahá’í Faith? Should she investigate the truth as best she can, even if she reaches non-Bahá’í conclusions, or should she renounce her investigation of the truth and take things “on faith”?* The paradox seems to be this: If a person is granted the free right to seek, but only if that seeking leads to one place, isn’t it all a lie to make the Faith *seem* open, when in reality it’s the same as any other system of belief on the planet? How can one search for an assumed truth? Isn’t that like looking for something already in your hands? Since I study and practice philosophy, this question is dear to me. I hope I can offer something to your query. First, I wish to distinguish the common sense usages of religious truth and Bahá’í belief. Bahá’í teachings describe many attributes of God, such as love, peace, forbearance, abstinence from contention and conflict, etc. I presume that a possession of the truth would be indicated by the presence of all these things. Therefore, “believing” in the tenets of the Faith is not “truth”, because one can hold such beliefs and still violate all of its principles. In support of this, I find that `Abdu’l-Bahá said: “If religion becomes the cause of enmity and bloodshed, then irreligion is to be preferred, for religion is the remedy for every ailment, and if a remedy should become the cause of ailment and difficulty, it is better to abandon it.” And Bahá’u’lláh wrote, “The purpose underlying the revelation of every heavenly Book, nay, of every divinely-revealed verse, is to endue all men with righteousness and understanding, so that peace and tranquillity may be firmly established amongst them. Whatsoever instilleth assurance into the hearts of men, whatsoever exalteth their station or promoteth their contentment, is acceptable in the sight of God.” Again, the emphasis is on actual behavior, not profession. That is, religion relates to an essential reality, not an outward form. I do not believe religion’s purpose is for us to have fixed ideas about things. The stated goal is union with God, and the stages of that union are described in the “Seven Valleys”. Unless I see the signs of such a transformation, either the person has gone nowhere or I was too blind to notice. “Holding Bahá’í beliefs” can even be a stumbling block to progress in some cases, because it can lead to an arrogant assumption of superior knowledge. “We’re the most recent Faith, and you aren’t.” This is not knowledge, but a bolstering of self by illusions of righteousness. It should not be confused with the Faith, since it is distinctly *abhorred* by it: Verily I say unto thee: Of all men the most negligent is he that disputeth idly and seeketh to advance himself over his brother. Say, O brethren! Let deeds, not words, be your adorning. Second, considering the idea of an undirected, pure search, where the *only* goal is a deeper understanding of reality. There is a verse in the Qur’án which says: Whoso maketh efforts for Us, in our ways will we guide him. Also, Bahá’u’lláh in one place quotes an Arab proverb which says, “He who seeketh out a thing with zeal shall find it.” It seems to me from these, and other sources, that sincere effort will produce results, no matter the direction, since purity of the effort attracts God’s aid. “At every step, aid from the invisible realm will attend him, and the heat of his search for grow.” So the question here is: What is her motive, and what is she really seeking? Bahá’ís or not, people who employ religion for a sense of security are totally missing the boat. Do they really think the journey ends with acceptance? The Qur’án says: “Do men think when they say `We believe’ they shall be let alone and not be put to proof?” Third, the Writings state that freedom of spirit is integral to understanding religious truth, and not the outward assumption of a set of beliefs — and that such a spirit, if it love God, will transform in its journey toward Him. It is the spirit of religion which is significant, not its dogma. And this is attained not through assumption, but purity, chastity, freedom and effort: The understanding of His words and the comprehension of the utterances of the Birds of Heaven are in no wise dependent upon human learning. They depend solely upon purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit. Fourth, I see the “Bahá’í Faith” not as the truth per se, but a portal leading to truth. Bahá’u’lláh even states that what has been revealed to Us is according to our capacity (i.e., related to Us), not a full expression of His reality: By My spirit and by My favor! By My mercy and by My beauty! All that I have revealed unto thee with the tongue of power, and have written for thee with the pen of might, hath been in accordance with thy capacity and understanding, not with My state and the melody of My voice. So the Faith may spring from the source of Truth, but ten thousand years from now, will not our forbears be amused at our ignorance? For us, the Word of God is truth unalloyed (relative to our state); but even if we repeat the words, we have done nothing but exercise our vocal chords. To experience the truth contained in those words, we must immerse ourselves in that ocean: Immerse yourselves in the ocean of My words, that ye may unravel its secrets, and discover all the pearls of wisdom that lie hid in its depths. Take heed that ye do not vacillate in your determination to embrace the truth of this Cause — a Cause through which the potentialities of the might of God have been revealed, and His sovereignty established. With faces beaming with joy, hasten ye unto Him. This is the changeless Faith of God, eternal in the past, eternal in the future. Let him that seeketh, attain it; and as to him that hath refused to seek it — verily, God is Self-Sufficient, above any need of His creatures. Do you see the difference? Someone can say to me, =E= is =mc2=, and I can nod back at him and say, “Yes, I heard you just fine.” But a *world of difference* exists between those who merely hear, and those who understand. To go into the problem, to root out its implications, to nestle it within your heart, and mix its ingredients with the essence of your own being… THAT is seeking after truth. Anything else is pale mimicry. Lastly, if your friend seeks after truth earnestly, I believe she will find it. I do not know what it will look like, and I must say I’d be surprised if she found it without ever considering — even indirectly — the revolutionary ideas found in the teachings of Bahá’u’lláh. Who before Him suggested that all Faiths had one source, that science is the supporter of religion, that the mind is the mightiest pillar supporting the Faith of God, that women and men and all the races are equal in their spiritual reality, that evil is but an illusion before the reality of good, and that all souls continue to develop eternally in their quest for God? Where else are all the Faiths described as intrinsically united in their purpose, and what else delves into the idea of unity with such depth and completeness? I wonder if what she finds will be the product of a True Mind, and not simply the elaborations of a fellow seeker. At some point, possibly, her outward behaviors and beliefs may come to coincide with the members of our Faith. But we are not all equal in the status of our search; every human is unique in his condition. To say that seeking will result in following a mold, is like saying that God’s purpose in making people with free-will, was only to transform them into automatons. In conclusion, I think “truth” is essentially something people do not, and will never, know, because there is infinitely much that is unknown, and truth includes all. Hence the notion of eternal progress and discovery. It may be “true” that Bahá’u’lláh is a Messenger of God, and that His words contain the wisdom needed by humanity at this stage of its spiritual evolution. But we are not seeking after “true things”. If we were, learning that 2+2 is 4 should make us satisfied. To truly seek is to go where no one else has gone, because how can another person’s experience of life be identical to yours? I suppose the ultimate dilemma we still come to is: Will her search necessarily lead her to the Bahá’í Faith? I guess it will or it won’t. In fact, that would be a pretty good test of its truth, wouldn’t it?

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) I believe that morality is this: to see people and the world we live in as one’s highest value. The direct corollary, of course, is that “the good” begins by valuing one’s own life supremely. After all, we take the best care of what we admire most. Who can truly attend to spiritual development who has little regard for their own life? Paradoxically, religion — its essential mission being the welfare of mankind — often interprets its writings in such a way as to violate this underpinning of morality. By preaching us to disregard the world, and perceive souls rather than individuals, our moral decisions become more and more a thing of theory, proceeding from the mind instead of the heart. And since we then find ourselves living a life contrary to lofty values, there can be no peace. We are souls at war with the bodies we find ourselves in. No matter that God created both, we choose to thrown one away while still in it. Since the life we live is thus split between actual considerations of a contemptible world, and potential realities of a world beyond perception, no wonder we fall into a lackluster approach to morality: even finding ways to subjugate it altogether to temporal interests (of course feeling guilt about it, or maybe no guilt at all). This may be why, although religious scripture underscores patience, kindness and truthfulness as the most important values in existence, we find everywhere war, hatred and duplicity in the ranks of the churches. How to explain it other than that these organizations have inwardly come to despise their own being? The being we know, after all, must be of a material nature; and this is exactly what the clergy vociferously attacks. We are a being divided, with only hate to bridge the gap. But I believe, looking at the scriptures themselves, that love alone is the byword of faith. Rather than employing hatred to separate our dual natures, love is meant to unify them in a harmony. When such a harmony exists, morality becomes the natural expression of one whose values are dear to heart. Observe anyone who truly loves his work, and you will see how much honesty and compassion he pours into it; he can’t sleep right if some flaw mars the overall composition. Then what if we regarded ourselves this way? As a spiritual work of art? If we loved all of ourselves — and others *as* ourselves, the way a poet admires fine composition from any hand — wouldn’t this sustain a moral attitude toward humanity?

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) Lately I have gotten into the habit of drinking tea. Persian tea, to be precise. And also of making it, of seeking out the implements and ingredients that will allow me to brew the ultimate cup of this tasty, coppery beverage. For those also seeking adventure, here is what I’ve done so far. Let me just say that a well-done cup of tea not only tastes delicious, it also feels wonderful upon drinking it — something of a mildly euphoric lift combined with the same accelerating feel that coffee gives you, although without the jittery side-effects. First, I blend three kinds of tea. They must all be loose-leaf tea, and you should be able to find all of these brands at a Middle Eastern grocery. I cannot tolerate tea-bag tea anymore (or what my Persian family calls taqallobi, or “cheater tea”). It tastes to me now a bit like the way dishwater looks. The first kind of tea is purely for taste. For this I use Chaye Ahmad (Ceylon) in the green box. For two cups, I use 3/4 teaspoon of Ahmad. The second kind of tea is for the wonderful scent of Bergamot, found in Earl Grey. For this I use Chaye Sadaf (Earl Grey), also found in a red box. For two cups, I use one teaspoon. The third kind of tea is for color, that beautiful amber/burgundy that denotes a fine cup of bliss. For this I use Chaye Golabi, the “Barooti” variety. For two cups, I use 3/4 teaspoon of Golabi. Beware! All three tea makers offer several variations, so pay attention to the labels. You could substitute Ahmad in the green tin for Sadaf in the red box, but don’t get Ahmad in the green tin alone. Ahmad is the best tea for taste, so my more experienced friends tell me. Pour all of this loose-leaf tea into a dried quurii, or small teapot. Leave it there. Now put about a liter of pure water into a ketrii, or large teapot. I use an electronic water boiler for this, since it only takes about three minutes to boil the water. Once the water is up to a rolling boil, pour in enough to fill the small teapot either halfway or all the way, depending on how many people there will be. Put a lid on the quurii and wait anywhere from five to ten minutes. Do not stir the tea or push it around. Just let nature does it’s work. While the time is approaching, put the ketrii back on the flame and let it come to a rolling boil again. It can just keep boiling while the quurii steeps. When the quurii is ready — and a glass quurii is helpful here, because you’re waiting for it to reach a deep amber color — pour some of the tea water into a glass. If you like your tea light, or “kam rang”, fill the glass 1/4 full. If you like dark tea, or “pro rang”, fill the glass half full. If you drink straight from the quurii, you are probably going to pucker like a blowfish. Now top off your glass with the boiling water from the ketrii. This ensures that your tea is as hot as possible, without damaging the tea. That said, you never want to boil the water in your quurii. The ketrii is for water only, and boiling only. The quurii is only for steeping. If you want to drink tea in the Persian style, put a sugar cube on your tongue and drink the tea past it. The cube not only cools the water slightly on contact, it gives you a variable sweetness between sips that I like. Otherwise, you could just stir your sugar in directly. Or drink it straight. Properly done, the end result should have a pleasing color, a great aroma, and taste wonderful, with a mellowy smoothness that rides along your tongue. It should feel good in your stomach, and produce a feeling of lift and relaxation. It should make you want more, even though you’re already about to jump off the walls. This is good tea.

error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) A friend and I have often questioned the pursuit of fame. One hopes to pursue a thing for its merit: if it satisfies the heart or has some value. But often there’s a nagging question behind our efforts: Will anyone remember what I do? It makes it very hard to live for the present, if our inner eye is so often distracted by the future. In a way, it tears us in two, makes even humility an avenue for ego (in the hopes that humble actions be remembered), and inevitably leaves us dissatisfied with our as yet unrecognized lives. As I thought about it more today, it occurred to me that perhaps I’m being tricked by my perspective. After all, in some ways my adult life is as separate from childhood as life is from death: I cannot go back, I no longer walk those paths, and I live now in a world of completely different values and awareness. So I put the question: Does it trouble me that none but a few remember my childhood antics? Would I wish for more to have known them? Do I want to be known more for who I was then, than who I am with each passing day? In fact, if everyone knew all the things I thought and did back then, it would certainly be more cause for shame than celebration. Yes, some things were cute, or innocent, but the merit of those is due to childhood itself, and not mine alone! On the whole, I’m glad to have a relatively clean slate at this age, and not to live my life under a feeble shadow. Then how will I feel when *this* childhood is ended and I journey onward? If people remember me fondly, they are bound to exaggerate what *I* consider memorable, just as I hear people doing this constantly with respect to anyone they admire. And if they criticize me, will it really be on the points I care about? Is there anyway for posterity to accurately capture who I think I am, or will every enduring memory turn into a public creation, branded only by a name as if the locus of their own ideas — eventually becoming much more a myth than a reality? If this is so — and my reflections on the great fame of others leans that way — how can fame in this life be anything more than an awkward mis-labeling in the next? No matter what people may have said about my childhood, would it really depict me as I am now? Or would it limit me to moving constantly against a current of expectations, striving to redefine myself against an overwhelming past. It might, in some cases, open doors, but those doors would be held open by benefactors expecting a ghost to walk through. I have a feeling that perhaps I’ll look back with fondness on the actions mostly forgotten. Made the more precious *because* I did not fully notice them — things I did with such genuine intent, I never framed a consciousness around them. Or of the joy of an unfettered present, moving agilely with or against the current as I chose. For this I may need a degree of trust and respect from those around me, but not the world-encircling fame my friend and I always talked of. We look at how the great ones are remembered and sometimes think: I want that. But perhaps we are hearing far more of the psyche of those speaking, than of their beloved object. Maybe fame is just a focal point; and a fairly awkward one at that, given sufficient distance.

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) Again, I am immersed in the world of fantasy role-playing games, this time as a human mage in the [[http://worldofwarcraft.com][World of Warcraft]]. As much an amusement as a means for reflection, many things have happened in the game which have prompted me to reconsider real life. There really is a lot in common between the two — though it may not seem so at first. I’ve written before on this idea, [[the.game.of.life][the game of life]], but this time I’ve found even more things to ponder. For example, one day, as I was adventuring around, I found a really cool shield. Well, it seemed cool back then, when my character was only seventh level. And since I’m a mage, and can’t use shields, I looked at it in terms of its selling price: a whopping four silvers. At the time this was almost a quarter of what I had. Suddenly I faced a dilemma. Should I sell this great shield, or find a worthy fighter or paladin to give it to? He would love it, considering all the magical benefits it accrues to its wielder. Or I could trade it in for four silvers, greatly increasing my own wealth. What to do, what to do… As I reflected on my choice, a thought occurred to me: very soon I will stop playing this game altogether, and on that day, I won’t care anything whatever for the wealth my character has. What can gold or silver mean in a game you no longer play? And when I give up all my possessions that future day, four silvers will mean nothing to me at all. I doubt I will look back and wish I had kept those silvers. I won’t even remember them. But if I give away my shield to a deserving player, I’ll be glad for doing so even beyond the game. It was like having a vision of how my choice today would look to my future self. So I gave away the shield. Nowadays my character has about 11,000 silvers, and the matter of four silvers then or now would have made no difference to me at all. Had I kept the money or given it way, things today would be the same. I’m very glad I gifted that shield to someone else back then; even giving it away now would mean nothing to me. It was the effect of the choice, as much as the choice itself, that had value. All of this made me think: isn’t real life that way too? Isn’t a day fast-approaching when all of our possessions will mean nothing to us at all, but the choices we made will mean all? On that day, I’ll not wish I had saved more money — then, all amounts will equal the same nothingness — but I shall be very glad for every time I chose to help my friends, or valued my time over spending it to make more money. So as time went on in the game, I gave away an entire gold piece — when it meant half of everything I had; and then five gold; then twenty; even one day giving away 40 gold and reducing myself to poverty! All to prove a point to myself: that truly, it was worthless; nothing had meaning in the game but playing it — both as a way to enjoy myself and to spend time connecting with others. And sure enough, not one week after my self-imposed poverty, I was back to over a hundred gold and earning it faster than I could spend it. The question of amounts never mattered at all! But I could have easily gotten too caught up in quantities, and missed the quality of such an easy freedom, assured that money will be there whenever I need it. Does this really relate to real life? In fact, it does. I’ve carried out this experiment before, but it took these events to remind me of it. I recall once trying so hard to save up money, spending half a year scrimping and socking away every dollar, just to reach a certain amount. And then in a moment of complete abandon I gave it all away, everything I had accumulated over those six months. And what happened next? All of it and more was replaced within a month or two. I’m still not sure how it happened; not caring and not trying so hard, generated more wealth for me than bending my back. And at times when I’m not working, it’s not that I earn so much, just that what I need is there by the time I need it. I’ve found it to be a general truth that the watched pot really doesn’t boil as fast, at least not in terms of our experience of time. It’s like the tortoise and the hare: those in no hurry reach the end just as easily, while enjoying the scenery. It’s about enjoying the game — the experience — not sweating the details. Warcraft and my young mage are teaching me this again, and life has shown it to me several times. It’s all a game; and the player who wins best is the one who’s had the best time playing it.

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error: (error “Cannot find any publishing styles to use”) Philosophy and religion have long debated the meaning of existence as it relates to form and essence. The Islamic concept of *wahdatu’l-wujúd* uses a Quránic verse to claim that nothing can have positive existence but God Himself, and that therefore, everything which claims to have existence must in some way refer to His being. If only God exists, the meaning of “to exist” must have several shades of meaning depending on its context. In the weakest sense, a thing exists if has an impact on consciousness. That is, it may not exist *per se*, but simply as a perceived effect itself. When we watch a movie, we are only seeing light reflected from a white screen. None of the forms we see “exist” in the common sense of the word; they are only illusion. However, the movie has an impact on consciousness almost to the same extent as watching such events in real life. These events may be said in a sense to exist, even if they exist only in our consciousness of them, and not by themselves. The next degree of existence relates to consistency of transient forms. The images on the movie screen are highly impermanent, lasting only as long as the projector reveals the same image. The chair I’m sitting on, meanwhile, continues to exist while writing this essay without need of a constant projection. It answers to all five of my senses, and repeated experiments yield consistent results over a long period of time. This is the existence of durable forms. Yet the chair is also an artefact of time, just as the images on the movie screen were. If time were slowed enough to halt the chair’s atoms, the “chair” as I know it would disappear, leaving a near-vacuum of space and undefined, raw energy. Since the shape and properties of *chairness* are due to the interaction of electrons as they spin about the nucleus (producing the senses of solidity, color, shape, etc.), there is little difference between the images made up of light on the movie screen, and the chair made up of energy underneath me. The chair has a firmer order of existence than a movie, but both are only artefacts of time, differing in their degree of transience — but not in any more fundamental sense, since both involve quantities of the same basic energy. The next order of existence departs from the realm of perception and is therefore not really considered existence from a human point of view, since the experience of perception is our primary means of interacting with the world. This order refers to the “chairness” that survives all modifications of the chair I’m sitting on. Even if time were slowed to the point that the physical chair disappeared, since the same atoms and structures remain the chair as I know it would pass from actuality as a function of time to a functional potentiality independent of time. That is, the frozen atoms would no longer present a “chair” in the normal sense, but as time is resumed the chair reappears just as it was a moment ago. I cannot say that “chairness” had disappeared when time stopped; only that the phenomenon of the chair has momentarily ceased to be. This actually happens between every instant of time, which is why we implicitly say of the energy of the chair that it reserves a certain potential to “remain a chair” beyond the actual forms that it presents over time (cf. Sartre’s notion of the plural phenomena to “transcend” toward a being that presents itself to consciousness). Chairness as an essence is thus inferred, and saying that it is noetic only is little different than claiming that it endures beyond the phenomena of the chair. Both conceptions yield the same result. Because the being of the chair transcends immediate perception, there is no way for humanity to reckon its being without resorting to the intellect — in which case we must wonder if such a being is not actually a product of the intellect, rather than an independent reality now the object of contemplation. Chairness, as a potential to manifest a chair, can be called an accident of a deeper potentiality from which all essences (or beings) are born. The naming of something as “a chair” is arbitrary: we define its unity in terms of how we use it. A bird might use both its nest and a chair in the same way, and correctly group the two under the name “nest”, thus identifying the chair as a manifestation of nestness. Both chairness and nestness are essences with respect to the observer, but neither has sufficient existence to claim itself to be the “true” essence behind all the presented forms. Thus our third order of existence must give way to a fourth, which is: that potential, nameless essence from which all cognizable existences are derived. This fourth order existence has no form, since the essences we associate with particular forms are but faces of itself. Taoism might call this “the mother of all things”, and claim that whenever we speak of it we have missed it, since speech requires a subject and all possible subjects are born of this essence though none of them contain it singularly. Even this existence is not the highest or most fundamental form, since, although it cannot be conceived of directly, it stands apart from the forms and essences it lends its being to. There must be an even deeper reality to which this scheme of separation itself refers. That is, a universal essence that contrast cannot be used to describe, not even abstractly. Otherwise how could being, which is the relationship between these essences and their derived forms, itself have being? We might say that “a chair” has being as a transcendent reality behind its transient forms, and that as such it preserves a mode of existence with respect to our perception of it in the form of a chair — and possibly other modes of existence, such as “nest”, etc. — but how can we describe that being which expresses the unitive being of chairness and nestness *and* their expressions in form? There is an existence implied by the process of being itself, not as an essence which stands apart from being, but which is *the being of being’s beingness*. It does not exist apart from the operation of being precisely because it is the being of the operation of being. That is, a mode of existence to which all things refer in the unitive aspect of being but one thing: form, essence and the existence of all essences as one reality. There is no way to talk about this highest form of existence, because even the process of talking about it *is it*. We cannot separate our discourse from the subject, making any analysis impossible. We can, however, examine the lesser forms of existence as elements of this ultimate being and perhaps develop some intuition of its reality. Again, the fourth order of existence, although it implies that all things — both form and essence — refer to a common essence, is still contrastive. Physically speaking, the fourth order is something like the pure energy from which all other types of energy have their being: the basis of all the many forms assumed by that energy throughout the universe. This does not consider, however, the void which allows us to know such energy as energy and not a further extension of void. Yet the highest unity, or fifth order of existence, includes energy and void both and as such can never be a subject of consciousness — since consciousness itself is also an aspect of its existence! So how can there be any value in talking about something which cannot be discussed? Because although we cannot immediately examine it in any way, there are implications to such a reality that do affect us. I will use the individual as an example of this, since nearly all points of my argument can be found there and everyone has had immediate experience with it. From infancy to adulthood we claim that a certain individual exists as the same person throughout. We make this claim by referring to a common essence — some might call it a “soul” — which endures beyond all the changes in quality an individual might undergo. This “soul” itself does not change, but refers to the “personness” of the person beyond whatever qualities they might temporarily possess. This soul cannot be identified, since it is never predicated (meaning it never takes on qualities which might cause it to change from one state to another). It simply represents the unity of an individual’s diverse forms. Since it cannot be depicted in any way, it may be reasonable to assume that the soul does not exist for an individual in any normal sense, but is mereley an abstraction derived from his forms (an analysis which Aristotle might agree with). This defines the soul as a noetic existence operated on by those who meet the same individual at various times, yet remaining imaginary even to the individual himself, who can observe even the operation of his own consciousness over various times. And yet our social laws operate as though the soul were a concrete feature of the individual and not an artefact of transcendent perception. Take the concepts of ownership and culpability, for example. If there were no soul — no enduring element common to all forms of an individual — where would be the dividing lines between sameness and difference? If a child owns a piece of property, the adult is also held to own the same property, even if there is little in common between these two phases of growth. One’s figure, ideas, language, etc., might all have changed during adolescence, but still we hold that an “individual” owns the property, and as such changes in form have no affect on the binding nature of ownership. This word “individual” implies a point of unity not divided among multiple beings. Although the child and adult are highly dissimilar, there exists a sameness which does not allow the child and adult to be considered as two different individuals. One might claim that “individual” refers to whatever is common among a person’s forms, but this presupposes the very commonality it seeks to define. Why not include other forms in the definition beyond corporeal identity? Why are two adults never confounded to be a single being in the same way? This actually happens in the case of corporate entities, yet no one believes that entity to possess a “soul” apart from its members in the way that an individual’s soul is thought to transcend all temporary forms. This example so far includes the first four orders of existence: the fleeting forms of self, which might be represented in fantasy or literature; the concrete forms of the individual, such as childhood or adulthood; the abstract presence of self, which is the subject of livelihood and law; and the unitive conception of soul, by which “selves” are believed to be actual realities (whether we answer the question of the soul’s independent existence or not). There remans the fifth order of existence, which “soul” must derive from to have any meaning at all. It is apparent as a functional reality, but in what sense does it *exist*? If purely functional realities also exist, then the idea of a soul is little different than the thing itself. What really separates the one from the other, and moves us from the functional to the actual? Is that nothing at all exists, or are “things” really outgrowths of a singular essence which does in fact have true existence? Thus we find that the grounding of the soul cannot be defined itself, but is assumed by believing the soul to have an actual reality beyond mere ideation. What is it? I cannot say what it is, but I have a feeling it alone deserves the word “existence” we use so freely, but which hardly applies to the objects we refer it to.