It’s such an interesting moment when one first becomes conscious but hasn’t yet opened the eyes.
The vibrations and the shape of space permeate awareness before even the first thought arises.
The “I AM” part that’s always witnessing, just absorbing the sounds and at one with the ambiance until the what am I’s, who am I’s, and where am I’s slowly begin to surface and this being called “Jess” begins to sense the texture of a sensation, of an emotion— something akin to joy… joy to be in exactly this place:
nested in a bed,
nested within a mosquito net,
nested within a Tambo,
nested within this retreat center just upstream of Iquitos on the rio Itaya,
nested in the low jungle of the Amazon basin in Peru.
Awareness still feels like it’s wearing a Jess costume as a hand reaches out for the cell phone, meaty eyeballs adjusting to the blue glow of the screen.
How is it, exactly that these meatballs with windows are seeing all this?! And who is it that sees through these meatballs, anyway? Fascinating.
It’s almost three o’clock in the morning.
Whatever that means…
Awakened just before the alarm went off.
Perfect.
Because the sound of an alarm clock never bodes well for that stunning moment when you don’t remember who you are yet (because you actually are who “I AM” is without needing any reminders.
Reminders are just distortions anyway.
Even outside that first awakened moment, there is this stillness before the thoughts start streaming, precious moments of silence when one still hasn’t uttered a sound, thought a word or encountered another being to further solidify the illusion.
Like light waves that suddenly become particles located in space and time the instant they are observed.
I AM wearing the Jess costume carries the reservoir of stillness carefully like a glass overfull with precious elixir, slowly and silently getting up, getting dressed, descending the stairs and walking barefoot onto the Earth, mindfully overstepping a rushing river of leaf cutter ants.
There is a fire glowing down the path and flashes of a head lamp. Rhythmic sounds of the machacando— the pounding of vine to separate the braided stands of the interior from the outer bark— become clearer with each step.
He’s already up… he’s already lit the fire and he’s already begun preparing the plants. This slight 65 year old man, rail thin from over 40 years of dieting the plants, has a face that glows with radiant vitality as he peers at me with smiling eyes through the dim fire light and the morning mist.
His gaze, however, somehow does not disturb the reservoir of stillness. There’s a recognition and resonance— we’re carrying the same elixir from that same still reservoir.
Without a word to shatter the Truth, the Jess costume sits down across from the Maestro costume, and both continue machacando in the silence of the pre-dawn hours until the sun has finally risen.
