It is about time

The distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

(Albert Einstein)

Out of that Isness serene. Comes turbulence supreme, a seed of nothing. Multiplied in points of energy, running wild in expanding frames, of time and space. But somehow or other we sing deep songs, in a language beyond words, consciousness, culture, phyla, time and space. We dance existence.

Time has passed undoubtedly, in our perception of these fields of the universe, friendship, family, and all, with the inevitable ups and downs that characterize the unfolding of this play, where we are all actors, producers and directors of our unique personality and story line. With our scripted attractions and aversions, we play-act our roles inside and in our constellations of relation.

We divide our continuum in sunlight apparitions, in seasons, in night and day, to define intermissions. At the intermissions, we reflect perhaps on the past interval, and resolve to improve our next presentations, either by changing styles or becoming even more recalcitrant in our role playing. All this while the other leading and supporting actors, and the extras pop in and out of the play irremediably. Some are gone with the river, others brought in by storks; some decide to move to another stage, to another theater. Sometimes we are relieved for that, sometimes we are sad.

Time is a fiction we create as we discover what life is all about. As we traverse our imaginary journey and seek to understand our existence, as we hunger for the whole, we maintain a conversation, reverberating monologues in myriad mirrors of Being, to reflect light in all possibilities of color and brightness. This conversation effervesces from birth, as an urge to embrace with our subtle instruments of silence and word, as we react to this solitude of the many, that masks the singularity of our Being.

With the evolution of language, we have recorded and counted the passing, we converse about past times and relationships, describing what we saw outside, and what we felt inside. Through words, songs, poems, the human pharynx, and the hand became instruments of the Universe to converse in all manners of expression; to exchange awe in all manners of perception.

Every story conversed, was preserved in scrolls, books, art, traditions, and myths. Symbols and culture passed on, in a never-ending information current, to each regenerating pulse of life as its streams advance in a consciousness flow. Today, the awe of our external manipulations competes with the awe of surrounding presence and our inner depth. We have become enamored of our conversational skills and forgotten the object of our conversation; the joy of being.

The magnificent conversation of Being, carried throughout the Universe, was latent in an original Silence. The spontaneity of this Silence is beyond thought, and therefore conversation must be as animated, varied, spectacular, entertaining as expressed infinite creativity can attest. It can even go astray and forget the joy, the beloved joy.

Forgetfulness is thus part of these powerful, multiple monologues of discovery. But even when the plaza crowds are mesmerized by the fireworks of celebration, there are lovers in hidden corners conversing about Love with glowing eyes.

Then ancient windows of light are opened. Rivers of Life manifest in torrents! Rhythms of heart bring forth the music, and every moment becomes new and sacred. Then form and spirit dance by the shores of the infinite and every instant is a source of joy.

Yesterday, I lived in the future and remembered today and tomorrow. Nothing had happened or would happen, there was no memory or history, no forthcoming. Confused I became a silent moment, without history or memory to recount, without dreams or events to anticipate. In that hiatus of things passing, there was only everything, and everything was nothing, spilling statically nowhere. Like a breathless sigh. Timeless.

How many times have we felt the breeze of winter announcing the irremediable season? This relentless passage of time, this constant dance in space and character we carry on, with opinions so rooted, with so many beliefs of assertion and denial.

Yet, love cuts across all substance and thought, and threads this tapestry of being, when you watch the world from a holistic point of view. And it always leaves a mark inside, a dent in the heart, an anticipated nostalgia, that comes back like an old song and makes one mellow and keeps you warm.

The cold fingers of winter are holding my hand now, making me aware of time, that irremediable friend that passes by. Telling me to gather your longings and belongings, and pack them up wherever you can, close the accounts, establish a forwarding address unknown, start saying farewell to fellow passengers, you are now approaching your station.

And what an incredibly amazing journey!

And without stopping for one second our role, we must continue to act, following the scripted joys and pains that we must share. As we share, we learn to love, more and more, and still yet more. To all who have shared the stage last year, the permanent cast, and the ones now in other theaters, the ones just landed and the ones who crossed the river, thanks for enriching life, by just being there, for whatever sharing. I wish you all a great new imaginary interval, a great performance in the New Year.