The external is always superficial. Only the hearts sense what’s hidden by the depths and darkness.
The mind projects but can’t receive. We receive through feelings. Feelings are the detection of change in one’s energetic field and the more sensitive one is the faster the change is perceived. Feelings inform you of how the change relates to you and what it could entail. It’s like sonar.
Only Allaah can give me comprehensive safety, which is emotional safety. My mind can only make me safe in terms of what I can see or predict. But the physical threats can’t be compared to metaphysical threats because of the limitations in the density of this physical realm. But the soul and heart can be subjected to unimaginable horrors that are made worse by the lack of knowledge of these hidden realms and what can happen. So instead of trying to at least mitigate the pain, one disconnects and rejects it, pushing heart further into the shadows.
Only Allaah knows what the mind can’t even fathom or put into words. And I rest in that knowing because I know that no matter how much I dissociate and how much sensory indulgence I wedge between me and my awareness, I can’t get away from my soul, ever. Not even through death! Not only that, but in rejecting parts of me I’m overloading the capacity of my mind that can’t do what my heart does. Life becomes unbearable, suffocating, and extremely gloomy..
You know, what we call depth is being at the lowest point and yet holding space for the highest point. If you can find a connection to the divine no matter how forlorn or distraught you are, you’re in the company of the Highest who takes note of your remembrance. And whoever is given the focus of the Creator is immersed in abundance.
If someone is turned off or bored by your authentic self it’s not that you’re not enough but that the truth is not enough for them. And it can be for various reasons – escapism, addiction, grandiosity, deception – but you don’t need to investigate whatever it is but simply rest in the knowing that presenting your uncompromised truth is extremely important in bringing out what’s hidden in people. You can’t decide what people can or should handle, but you can decide to only connect with those who’ve shown that they’re capable of holding space for all of you.
Past – 3D (the sensory world is always the past)
Present – 5D (heart)
Future – 4D (mind)
The future is the accessing point into a new reality. It’s the transitory phase into a deeper layer of the present moment. The present moment isn’t time, it’s space. It’s a vessel that holds everything that Allaah has already created, just like a girl is born with all the eggs her body will ever produce in her lifetime.
The future isn’t female, the present moment is.
I was a young man, starving and drinking and trying to be a writer. I did most of my reading at the downtown L.A. Public Library, and nothing that I read related to me or to the streets or to the people about me. It seemed as if everybody was playing word-tricks, that those who said almost nothing at all were considered excellent writers. Their writing was an admixture of subtlety, craft and form, and it was read and it was taught and it was ingested and it was passed on. It was comfortable contrivance, a very slick and careful Word-Culture. One had to go back to the pre-Revolution writers of Russia to find any gamble, any passion. There were exceptions but those exceptions were so few that reading them was quickly done, and you were left staring at rows and rows of exceedingly dull books. With centuries to look back on, with all their advantages, the moderns just weren’t very good.
I pulled book after book from the shelves. Why didn’t anybody say something? Why didn’t anybody scream out?
I tried other rooms in the library. The section on Religion was just a vast bog – to me. I got into Philosophy. I found a couple of bitter Germans who cheered me for a while, then that was over. I tried Mathematics but upper Math was just like Religion: it ran right off me. What I needed seemed to be absent everywhere.
I tried Geology and found it curious but, finally, non-sustaining.
I found some books on Surgery and I liked the books on Surgery: the words were new and the illustrations were wonderful. I particularly liked and memorized the operation of the mesocolon.
Then I dropped out of Surgery and I was back in the big room with the novelists and short story writers. (When I had enough cheap wine to drink I never went to the library. A library was a good place to be when you had nothing to drink or to eat, and the landlady was looking for you and for the back rent money. In the library at least you had the use of the toilet facilities.) I saw quite a number of other bums in there, most of them asleep on top of their books.
I kept on walking around the big room, pulling the books off the shelves, reading a few lines, a few pages, then putting them back.
Then one day I pulled a book down and opened it, and there it was. I stood for a moment, reading. Then like a man who had found gold in the city dump, I carried the book to a table. The lines rolled easily across the page, there was a flow. Each line had its own energy and was followed by another like it. The very substance of each line gave the page a form, a feeling of something carved into it. And here, at last, was a man who was not afraid of emotion. The humor and the pain were intermixed with a superb simplicity. The beginning of that book was a wild and enormous miracle to me.