On whom shall we call, as we watch Gaia slip off into the darkness? To whom shall we appeal as we see Pacha Mama pummeled into extinction? Who will awaken us from this nightmare, pull back the veil that creates the myth of separation, and allow us to laugh uproariously at the illusion that we are innately sinners, rather than God’s precious children, surrounded by the miracle of Her other offspring, dressed in different spacesuits? Can we awaken from the nightmare, laugh at the illusion and give ourselves over to our true nature, which is love?
History is a bedroom littered with the children’s toy soldiers, which the mother tidies away once the war games are ended. It is the beach pockmarked with the day’s foot traffic, now being washed clean by the gentle waves of the infinitely patient ocean. Evolution beckons us to become storytellers tasked with the privilege of creating tomorrow’s fables.
And the journey calls for the kind of mindfulness that carefully negotiates the minefields of yesterday, into the promised land of the about-to-be-conceived future. Only our Buddha nature can prevent us from stumbling to the right into the clutches of fundamentalist religion which threatens us with a distant demanding deity, dressed severely in somber black and utterly mirthless; and on whose kitchen wall hangs a plaque that stridently states, “I am not a happy camper!”
Only a Christ consciousness can save us from tilting to the left into the embrace of a fundamentalist scientism which preaches a purposeless cosmos that noisily broke wind in an event called the Big Bang, and which now meanders meaninglessly at the whim of an Alzheimer’s-demented algorithm.So, who will write the story of tomorrow? The fear-filled fundamentalists with a rabid, rage-filled God-caricature, or the puffed-up prophets-of-doom seeking Nobel Prizes for inventing weapons of mass destruction? Will it be the political puppets dancing on the dexterous digits of a global corporatocracy or the Jihadists with AK-47’s and suicide belts, leading the 21st. century’s version of the crusades – as they fanatically defend the besmirched honor of their humorless god who, in his infinite mercy, has simultaneously unleashed the dogs of war and the four horsemen of the apocalypse?
Isn’t there a different dream, a new story, a clean canvas to be filled with color and laughter? But who will volunteer the womb in which that dream can be conceived? And where are the eloquent tongues to spin the new stories? Who, indeed, if not you; and where, indeed, if not in your eternal Now? Can you risk awakening from the nightmare? Are you willing to turn off TV’s talking heads and, instead, stretch an unspoiled canvas over a frame constructed of love, and eager to feel the strokes of a brush dipped in laughter and applied compassionately like a mother’s fingertips on the face of her newborn baby?
Make your life your canvas; re-tool your tongue for telling love stories; walk lucidly along the beach of your dreamlife which the ocean has thoughtfully prepared for you. Become a wandering storyteller, writing hieroglyphics with your footprints on the sands of time, in response to the dictates of the God who is your True Self.