Madeira. Facing the ocean. The fabric of place, time and identity roiled with each wave. Dissolution. The old map, familiar and comfortable. No new map. Seemingly a leap in the dark, yet such a strong sense of comfort arising around it. Of being held. Carried. Pulled.
Not all the answers. Still bound, but enough energy to shuffle forward nervously, inching along the proverbial plank. A few more steps... It’s hard. The frequency is there, above the wind and pounding surf.
And endless internal chatter, voice, morphing, shifting and narrating what was on the line; lamenting losses:
security
comforts
certainty
No mention of the coin of a life. All signs pointing away:
“Look away please.”
The command framed the circling myriad projected distractions. Then:
“Take the easy path,” it said.
Convincing arguments ensued; expertly delivered, a constant, fluent, flowing stream of influence. Every reason not to look, bankrolled with unease.
Cold crushing fear on one side, the sense of another life on the other. Caught bang in the middle, strung between countervailing forces.
The knowing. Not mind. Not the voice. An arising sense. Reaching up and out, pointing towards the first layers of held beliefs.
Questions:
Is this true? Where did it come from?
Fact checks.
Was this claim that now lives as a belief uncontested and accepted with no hard credible evidence? The question ‘Who am I’ that seeded the initial line of enquiry, roots now spread deep, down and out across my life. Time to settle it.
But not yet.
No.
No stepping off that ledge. Not ready or equipped to. When full time work duties, other ‘must do’ claims fell away, space would come. Then.
And I knew no-one else could help. It was a paradoxical undertaking - profound and problematic. Framing the core questions and delving into them was, of itself, a daunting prospect. That’s the way of it.
Back in the UK a few months later. Delighting in small things. Nature. Walks. Drives. Reading. Music. Reflecting. Experiencing the incredible beauty of the South Downs. Gratitude. Following the directive enshrined in The Pathless Path by Paul Millerd. Letting go of it all. Allowing energy to gently return. Sitting with things. Open to new possibilities. Exploring. Experimenting. Further.
The voice in my head kept babbling away. Often more like an unhinged rabid sports commentator. Balanced? Objective? You must be joking. Breathless, primal and overbearing. Always on.
The ‘You should. I must...’ Harsh judgement. Controlling. Critical and unkind.
Spin this up, do this, do... do... do...
Relentless. Weeks passed, but then the moment came, a few pages into reading Jed McKenna’s Spiritually Incorrect Enlightenment. Recognition from his words. A nudge. Settled into the desk. The ‘don’t go here’ moment had arrived. First question ready.
Felt immediate constriction in the body, signs something was up. The internal compass spinning, searching, then settling.
I see you shadow.
Ready now. Ready to challenge. This was not going to be a gentle move.
Questions my sword; truth the keen edges of its blade.
High stakes. Changes felt across the body on approach. As if walking on a tightrope. Matching the force of my will to counter with its own deepest shaft of fear. Discomfort sweeping over the skin. Inner disquiet rising. Sweat across the brow. Compression everywhere. Fear rampant.
The shadow - a projected energy construct, an identity of sorts. Conditioning, layer upon layer, its form. Hidden from view by its own design.
‘I’m you.’
Facing the fear, attention angled inwards. Bringing the nuance and detail of held beliefs to light. The pictures, images... memories and their alleged significance and crafted meaning.
Breathe fully. Then reach for the sword.
One question at a time. Held beliefs for years, cobwebs of the mind, myths. Cut, cut, deeper... Question, cut, repeat. Watching the debris fall.
Time slows. Each revelation brings grief and joy.
Clarity came as the armour fell. In the days immediately after, a lingering sense of peace. A beginning, not an ending. Recognised that was true. Questions had separated fact from fiction. There was no choice. Is no choice. No going back. Not possible. But doubt too. Could it really be true and would this state last?
Seems simple and obvious now. Looking back it always does; a once you know ‘you know’ experience. But from the other side of it? Not at all. Fiction the shadow may be, but it can take any role, play any part - convincingly. And it will do everything to avoid being seen. The route to it, itself veiled, concealed and bounded with fear.
The frequency of that night abides. Never to be forgotten.
“For it is the doom of men that they forget”
The Merlin, Excalibur (1981)
Spoken as a warning that humanity’s greatest enemy is not external forces, but internal forgetfulness.
We’re not done. Whispers and echoes remain. It’s no longer #1. More than enough to work with.
The immediate days after spent resting, sleeping, reflecting. The engine had quietened. The constant background drive of do-do-do, vanished. Eerie. A new found space of infinite depth, vast and confounding. Unfathomable. Within that emptiness hung the most abiding sensation of peace. Anti-climatic. Just space. Impossible to define and explain. Words flounder. Something the mind is incapable of seeing or interpreting. Sat in it amidst the loss of momentum that had run for decades.
Carried in the tide
Life had turned. Changed for good. As untriumphant and dislocated as it all was, the recognition held of a shift. A new course set. Affirmed today as I write this.
Trust, surrender. Hands off the tiller more. Flow, and be carried in the tide.
Further.
Editor’s note
There’s a flow to these posts. If you are new to the work, the origin piece where the Madeira ledge first appeared is here: What are we optimising for?