Cloud Of Witnesses

"Communion of saints... Cloud of witnesses..." These are two exquisitely accurate phrases used by scripture to describe the field of awakened silence where we truly dwell at last and before the beginning. In the East they are called the "Buddha fields," where the humble have dropped like seeds into the furrow of your missing rib. Here you will find Beethoven, Rumi, Einstein and Blake, Lalladev and Rabia, Veda Vyasa, Milarepa, Pythagoras, and Fra Angelico. They slept but a moment at death, then awakened as unborn stars. They did not return to the ocean like drops. In each of them, the whole ocean became a drop. 

Their cosmic silence is not beyond but within you. Enter their limitless expanse, not by merging with a universal, but by penetrating a minute particular. This breath, this heartbeat, this moment. Through the trembling electron in one atom of your little toe. 

Each of the humble, at death, became their own Name. Through the Christal keynote of a Name, you fathom the abyss of love, for unbounded silence vibrates with the Names of the humble. These vibrations are the source of all scripture. Some are mystics, some are visionary scientists, some are poets, artists, composers. Some are home-makers who quilted the cosmos into a tapestry of care as they patched their children's socks. 

If you are a composer, an artist, scientist, mystic or poet, you will be nourished by subtle images, words, harmonies and visions whispered by them to your heart. Nothing is yours. It all comes through you, not from you. When you honor their Names, and remember their works with reverence, they feed your longing, and dwell inside your chest like flames. 

But do not revere them in general, as if they have dissolved into an essence or mist, for they are no mere "collective consciousness." We do not evolve into pudding. The essence within the essence is the minutest particular. 

All is not One but Wild, whirled, harmonious, the ever-awakening chaos of Infinity. No not One but Wild, granulated into the quantum field, myriad angels and ancestors dancing on the finest bindhu in your brain, a pin prick filled with galaxies, between that fiery axon and this burning dendrite, now.