This

  One of the most-often sung church songs in the world is about how “our God” is “greater” and “stronger” than any others. I always found this to be odd, as typical Christian orthodoxy is not polytheistic. Who were these other gods we were comparing God to? Admittedly imaginary beings? Was “God, you’re better than the tooth fairy!” really saying much? It made me wonder if perhaps the song (and the entire worship service) wasn’t so much about God as it was about affirming to ourselves that our tribe was better than their tribe. Maybe “my dad can beat up your dad” wasn’t ever really about either dad.

  In the same way, maybe most (or all) of our religious beliefs, images, and practices are really more about us than God. This is just one of the problems in saying something like “THIS is awareness”—we are still projecting a conceptual model of a human experience (awareness) onto the rest of reality as a whole. So, of course, saying “THIS is awareness” is not quite true. But it’s also not quite false. To explain what I mean, I’d like to ask you a question that is not usually asked in polite society:

  Are your fingernails conscious?

  If you are steeped in the mainstream, secular, mythic worldview of what Alan Watts called the “Fully Automatic Universe,”41 you may answer no. At least, not by themselves. There are no neurons in fingernails. Fingernails, as far as we can tell, do not think or dream or have any separate sense of self from the rest of the body. But fingernails are part of the body, are they not? And if it is not the entire body that is conscious, what exactly in the body is conscious? The brain?

  From what we can tell, human brains are what give rise to thoughts, and thoughts are the basis of what we consider to be “consciousness,” so most of us would probably answer “yes, human brains are conscious.” This would, of course, presume that the brain has not been puréed in a blender. One would presume that the brain in question is living and properly attached to a functional body. Even though the consciousness that occurs within the brain depends on the physical structures of the brain, those physical structures of the brain and the nervous system in which it is a part also depend on the skeletal, muscular, circulatory, pulmonary, and digestive systems of a living human body—including fingernails. All of these systems depend on and operate along with all sorts of other things—sunlight and vitamins and minerals and gravity and whatever the hell “dark energy” is—not to mention the social or collective consciousness in which any individual consciousness is rooted. In other words, it is impossible to draw a line around anything, whether it be a brain, body, species, or planet and say “this is all that is needed for conscious awareness to exist.” Your thoughts and feelings are not just a product of gray matter, they are the stuff of family dynamics and cultural norms and supernovas and giant asteroids and possible alien civilizations. All of that has to be for all of this to be. You can’t separate a rock in your driveway from everything that makes up your own consciousness any more than you can your own brain. It all goes together. The universe is, at least, conscious if you are conscious because you are the universe. If any of it is conscious, All of it is the very body of consciousness.

  This doesn’t mean that rocks think about things on their own. They don’t, and neither do you. What you think of as your thoughts is simply all of THIS being what it is—the sun, the moon, the stars, your mind, and yes, your fingernails.

  This removal of boundary lines between things and events does not feel natural to someone whose world is painted with the colors of assumed separateness. This sort of talk can sound like new-age drivel or sloppy, wishful thinking.42 But if you dare to seriously question the orthodoxy of separateness with any degree of diligence, it becomes quite clear that our culture’s “common-sense” view of a fragmented reality is a construct and nothing more. And while useful to a degree, it is a construct that can only “explain” reality to a certain depth.

  Think of a theist who can answer almost every question. Why does the earth spin? Gravity. And why does gravity exist? Well, God wills it so. If you then ask why God exists or who wills for Him to be so, you have found the end of the chain, that loop at the bottom of every story that comes back to itself as its own source of authority—God wills God to be so. In the same way, the atheists and other believers of the Fully Automatic Universe myth may reason with you that an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite amount of time would eventually type every book humankind has ever written, so no there is no great mystery to existence—no God needed. But if you ask them where all the typewriting monkeys (physical laws, chaos, or potential) came from, they must face the self-reinforcing loop at the end of their own story—the typewriters, monkeys, and anything else needed for the process of apparent order emerging from chaos simply exist without explanation.

  Those bewitched by their myths to the point of believing them to be unquestionably true from every angle are unable to see to the limited borders and usefulness of their own stories. For the theist, there is no need to consider any underlying meta-reality that allows God to exist and intervene in the universe without actually being the universe. For the believer in the Fully Automatic Universe myth, there is no need to see how randomness is a concept useful for insurance companies, lottery tickets, scientists, and casinos, but ought not be thought of as the true Nature of THIS.43

  To think of any of THIS as ultimately being limited to any human word—random, sacred, meaningless, created, conscious, chosen, etc.—will always be a reduction of reality into a mere conceptual and anthropomorphic model of that reality. These words are all constructs of the human mind swimming in myth. Dirt, as far as we know, doesn’t find its own existence meaningless. The moon wouldn’t self-identify as an atheist or secularist. The concept of matter is as mythic as the concept of spirit. The concept of accidental is as based in human story as the concept of created. To think of the universe as a lifeless it is every bit as mythical as calling it a living She, a personal I Am, or an infinite stack of tortoises.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean that all myths are equal in their outcome or fidelity to any possible objective reality. The theory of relativity is most likely going to be far better for plotting the launch of a satellite into space than the fundamentalist Christian Gap Theory of creationism, but whether we are journaling about lordship or writing dissertations on quantum gravity, all of us are still just telling stories. And for me, when I look at the consequences of a civilization that sees and understands nature as a lifeless it—a dumb, unconscious, random collection of things to be consumed, plundered, and dominated at our pleasure—I think we might do well as a species to allow ourselves to learn some lessons from some of the more ancient stories that treat nature with more reverence, even if that comes at the cost of needing to apply a little anthropomorphism into the mix here or there.

  People who live in the world of concrete and smartphones do not often have the same sort of connection, sensitivity, and awareness of the environment that sustains them as people who live among the trees and the mountains and the deserts do. We think and speak of nature very differently than many indigenous peoples and other nonindustrialized populations have, and in many ways, both we and our environment suffer for it. We feel like visitors in our own home—alienated, isolated, and afraid. Rather than flowing with the rest of Earth, we fight it, subdue it, conquer it. In relation to the planet, we, as a species, end up acting more like a cancer than a caretaker.

  Every parent knows that feeling when you find out that the “it” of sperm and an egg becomes a “she” or a “he.” How we think about Mother Earth determines how we treat her. Thinking of the universe as unconscious or unaware feels a bit degrading to me at this point—sort of like calling a baby an “it.” Saying “THIS is awareness” or “THIS is fundamental consciousness” may be too small and limited for the ultimately ineffable THIS, but it certainly is not too grand, idealistic, or beautiful.

  I’ve found that when I let go of the old ego guards afraid of being too superstitious o
r foolish according to the rules of the dominant culture around me, and I simply witness reality in loving awareness—I can feel how reality includes the seeing.

  If we are conscious, the universe is at least as conscious as we are because we are the universe. If I can inhabit a space where I am loving awareness, the universe is at least loving awareness.

  But is this just wordplay? Maybe. Still, why does gravity keep doing what gravity does? Why do cells keep dividing? Why does everything keep being? Does this not imply some sort of fundamental awareness or perception? How could one magnet pull on another if those pulls weren’t somehow “aware” of each other? I realize that saying this is anthropomorphizing nonhuman objects, but what’s the alternative? Imbuing the living Earth with the characteristics of a dead machine? Is that really better or more accurate? Also, are we so sure that when we talk about human “awareness” that we aren’t doing the exact same thing of assigning more “personifying” story there than what is actually happening? Are we so sure that what we think of as “consciousness” or “awareness” isn’t simply neurons being neurons, gravity being gravity, poles attracting or repelling poles?

  Within the story of “THIS is awareness,” spiritual practice becomes about not constricting awareness so fiercely into a fragmented ego story. Whether it is a breath, candle, note of music, or a mantra like I am loving awareness, focusing on a point of concentration can help quiet the thoughts and the myths that they are based in. This sort of practice can eventually silence the ego and melt one’s experience into the presence of the source of that loving awareness. In this awareness, everything is awareness. Everything is fundamental consciousness. The table is being a table. The candle is being a candle. My mind is being a mind. Each and all occupying their place on the dance floor, following the steps perfectly.

  Sight becomes God seeing Godself. Hearing becomes the music hearing itself. When we stare up at the stars, we are peering down into the depths of our own being. When our awareness is not turned against itself in the futility of its aversion to THIS, it becomes clear and open, like an endless blue sky. Thoughts and feelings come and go, but we do not feel imprisoned by them. We do not get caught in the loops of self-doubt, the fear of death, or the futility of striving, but simply rest in our most fundamental essence that is pure awareness. In the deepest place of this pure and loving awareness, there is no separation between subject and object. There is nobody watching and nothing being watched. It’s just all being THIS.

  The effect that this realization can have on the body/mind of a human being is nothing short of life changing. There was a famous and relatively cruel set of experiments conducted by a man named Harry Harlow in the ’50s and ’60s, where baby monkeys were taken from their mothers and offered false “surrogate mothers” made of either cloth or wire. The monkeys who were given cloth mothers to cuddle with did far better emotionally and socially than those given wire mothers. In fact, given a choice between a wire mother who offered milk, and a cloth mother who did not, baby monkeys overwhelmingly still preferred the cloth mothers. I wonder what happens to a mammal who believes that she lives in a universe that, at its heart, does not see or love her. Would she not feel some sort of fundamental dread or fear about her existence? Wouldn’t she be willing to do almost anything to fix that fundamental disconnect between her and her source? How much happier and content could she be if she could come to feel that the whole of things is not simply a cold, loveless math equation, but her very aware and loving mother?

  So many of us are always stressed out, always calculating our place in the social order, always wondering if we are going to be okay.

  If you are wondering if you are seen—you are. If you are wondering if you are loved—you are. Your existence is the All loving and dreaming you up from dust to the nanosecond. If you are afraid that this universe is a cold, loveless place, don’t be. Those are just scary stories people told you. You are perfectly safe. The universe is, at least, aware because your loving awareness is the universe itself.

  When my perspective shifts from wanting to be seen and loved to realizing that I am all of the loving awareness in the cosmos, those voices in my head that tell me that I need to find a way to climb the ranks in the tribe suddenly become quiet. That artist whom I used to be jealous of . . . that’s my genius too. That guy who got the promotion instead of me . . . that’s our promotion. I have nothing to be afraid of because what is there to be afraid of that I am not?

  I am loving awareness.

  I am loving awareness.

  I am loving awareness.

  THIS Is Love

  “He is a [sane] man who can have tragedy in his heart and comedy in his head.”

  —G. K. CHESTERTON

  I met her near the pier in Santa Monica. It was late, and she was crying hysterically. Sometimes, parts of my body still instinctually react to strangers’ bodies as though they were separate somethings to be feared, pitied, or avoided. But not this time. This time, this stranger felt like she was my mother, my very own heart. My friend, Mike (Science Mike), and I approached her, asking if she was okay. She was beside herself. Her breath smelled of alcohol; her dress was tattered and torn. She told me that she had just hit someone.

  That familiar sense of separateness peeked its head out. Did I need to be worried here? This woman was obviously not well and not sober. Was she dangerous? She asked me what was wrong with kids these days. She had promised herself she would never hit a child again. But only moments ago, she had. All she had wanted, she said, was a little help getting down the stairs in the park. I told her I was so sorry for what she was going through and encouraged her to take a few deep breaths to help her calm down a bit.

  As she breathed, I noticed her hands. One hand was trying to hold her torn dress in place over her body. On the other, she wore a black wrist brace. On the weathered fingers that extended from the brace, she wore several jeweled rings. Standing there wailing next to the pier, filthy, drunk, and homeless, late on a Monday night, our Mother still longed for dignity. She still wanted to be seen as beautiful. Looking at her, I could see that she was, but I didn’t know how to tell her that without coming across as weird or creepy. Her sobs gradually began to slow as her breath deepened. She told us she was thirsty. Could we please get her some water? Yes, we could do that. Could we please help her sit down somewhere while she waited? Her health wasn’t good, and she had a hard time getting around by herself. Yes, we could do that, too. We led her to the bus stop. She thanked us and begged us to please come back with the water. She really was so thirsty. We promised we would be back shortly.

  We found a McDonald’s that was open late and full of the sorts of interesting characters that hang around the Santa Monica pier in the middle of the night. I thought about my life. My clean and comfortable house. My family and friends. I live within a bubble of privilege that such a small percentage of human beings have ever experienced. I ordered a bottle of water and some french fries.

  We walked back with the goods and found her seated in the same place we had left her. She had calmed down a lot since we left. She thanked us for coming back and asked if we could help her with one other thing—could we just help her find a spot to lay down so she could go to sleep?

  I felt a pang of sadness through my chest. It was rough out here for a sick, elderly woman with nothing but a torn dress and some jewelry on her fingers. There were drunk, stoned, and shady-looking characters everywhere. I had seen a couple rats dart across the grass just a few minutes before. I couldn’t let her sleep here. What could I do? Could I get her a hotel room or something? Money was a bit tight for us as a family, but if we had to, we could afford it. But, no, I had heard what can happen if you try to provide hotel rooms for homeless people. Mike knew firsthand. He had once tried to get a few rooms for some people he met on the street who had nowhere to stay. The hotel had not only refused but had called security and had the rejected guests escorted off of the premises. The manager warned Mike that if he ever tried
something like that again, he would be permanently banned from the hotel as well.

  That may sound cruel at first glance, and maybe it was. But when you try to imagine the scenario from a hotel manager’s perspective, it’s complicated. After all, hotels operate their businesses on the necessary assumption that the guests will not destroy the rooms or steal things from them, and how could they ensure such a thing from someone who could not take enough care of themselves to maintain consistent shelter? What if the person was mentally ill or addicted to something and ended up stealing from the hotel, wrecking the room, or scaring other guests? How could the hotel ensure a nondisastrous stay from people with no credit cards or other assets to guarantee that they will behave responsibly?

  The woman with the torn dress pointed to a spot on the ground near a bush and asked if it was too wet there. I reached down and touched the grass. It was a little damp. She asked if the sprinklers would come on there in the middle of the night. We didn’t know. Out of the corner of my eye, another rat darted from one bush to another, probably hunting for more food scraps from the beach visitors. I looked at the woman’s face, my eyes burning with tears. It wasn’t that I simply felt sorry for her. In that moment, I could feel that her heart was my heart. I saw her. I loved her. I felt no distance or separation from her. She was my mother. My sister. Myself. My God. And, my God, it hurt.

  Could I get her to a shelter? It was already so late; the shelters were probably all full or closed now, and I didn’t know of any shelters around there to check anyway. There were so many homeless people around, I couldn’t imagine that there was an easy fix to be found. Still, my mind continued to spin, trying to imagine a possible solution to this woman’s predicament. I wanted to take away her suffering. I wanted her to be back with her family. I wanted her to not have hit those children. But deep down, I knew that I couldn’t fix this. This was not a simple problem that ended with one woman not having anywhere to sleep that night. I was walking into a vast matrix of problems that involved an entire lifetime of patterns and stories, of systems and generations and layers of complexity that I simply had no way of getting to the bottom of on a Monday night while holding a bag of french fries in my hands. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t fix this. But was that just a cop out? A justification of my own privilege?