It is not new, nor uncommon to want to touch the infinite. Spiritual traditions for all of time have structured programs that, when at their best, are helping people touch the infinite both externally and internally. Even better, when the external and the internal are connected, woven to one.
I touch the infinite when I’m in early morning dream state. Consciousness feels a bit wider. A bit more far-reaching. Ideas come easily. Insights arrive like overnight gifts. It’s the moment of being awake enough to know that I’m awake, yet not awake enough to have the day’s todo list broadcasting through my brain. That’s a moment, under the soft cover of my mink-like blanket that I’ve had for 30 years, in which I want to remain. It’s as though my brain and my soul are still plugged into the charging station and I’m getting full bandwidth. Yes, I know, many metaphors. Pick the one that you relate to most.
I want the infinite to stay with me more. I want it to come forward with me into my waking day. I want it to inform the pace and clarity of the design work that I do. I want the infinite to ground the leadership trainings and workshops that I offer and create with others. I want the infinite to come through in my words that I speak and in the silences that I hold. There is so much more going on than what is seen or imposed in this quantified and objectified reification that most of us live as life.
We all have jobs to do. I come from one of these families. We make lists. We do the dishes. We weed the garden. We pick up kids and take them to where they need to go. We work. We try to be helpful with people. We try to do good in the world. We create. We recreate. We work. We play. In all of this, increasingly, I want to feel some requisite sense of relationship to the infinite. In seriousness. And in silliness too. In a “can’t not” kind of way.
Back to work — could we humans welcome in more of the infinite in our day to day? Could we fill out spreadsheets and planning documents with a connection to the infinite? The way that some artists welcome their work to arrive through them. Could we modify our staff meetings to restore and reinvigorate the privilege of flowing with life? Could we, in the everyday ordinary, feel more of the extraordinary, by not doing more, but rather less because of this sweet connection to the infinite? I think the answer to these kinds of questions is yes (and I continue to thank Peter Block for “the answer to how is yes”). I want to feel, increasingly, that the world is much bigger than the moment, and yet, that every moment matters as is informed by the bigger context.
I long for this. And, as you can see, seek to grow the language and inner presence that welcomes more of this to come forward. I think it is found within us. Within all of us. I think it comes forward in our connection with each other. When we tell stories. When we ask questions. When we enter a realm of exploring. When we slow down enough to see the vastness inherently about us and within us.
The infinite used to be more sequestered to the realm of spiritual traditions and practice. It’s not enough for me, nor for the many of us that are coming to insist on it in our lives, our jobs, our families, our communities. And how cool, that even a touch, can make all of the difference. Oh yah, that. Infinity. The longing that never left.
One Reply to “Touch The Infinite”
This is an amazing and so-very-competent and superb statement. Let’s fill out spreadsheets like that. Maybe this is my own morning dew from a good night’s sleep, flowing into everything you are saying so easily. I’ve been bumping around and found this link to you on a page from Amy Lenzo. So thanks for existing — and maybe this would be interesting — this activism-thing that has suddenly been happening for me — “Charter for Cocreation” — where I am combining every force or energy I can find into a single framework for transformative activism. You would be a master-adviser to this thing. http://charterforcocreation.net/ Ok, now back to the spreadsheet. Thanks and blessings – Bruce Schuman, Santa Barbara