Imagination

 

This is the key.

The secret is held so perfectly that I cannot even see it while I am holding it. But the same could be said of my own body. I have trillions of cells that all obey me as if I were their master—which, by all accounts, I am.

And even this community is strange to itself. A single cell likely believes itself to be just that: a single cell—not one among trillions making up the body of one man.

And here I sit, thinking myself one, rather than a slew—a legion.

And as the governor of this one body, I have no idea what any one of my cells is presently up to. In fact, some are dying as I write this, and I am no worse off.

I somehow believe that consciousness is the critical bit. As long as I carry on thinking I am me, I am okay with a haircut, a gland removal, glasses, or even clothing. I wear clothing over a body, which I wear over skin, which I wear over muscles and fat, which I wear over bones. I fill this thing with fluids and fuel and ride around in it.

Oh, so I must be thought?

No.

Thoughts come and go in great volumes. There is no single thought more vital to my being than any single hair on my head.

I have mentioned this thought experiment many times: what thought do you have that makes you who you are? Which one can you not live without?

So suppose you have total amnesia, and yet you somehow remember only one person in this entire universe—and you somehow know you love that one person. Are you who you are if that’s all there is to you?

Somehow, this knowing of one person seems to qualify as a determiner of who.

While we are on this simple thought, suppose you were able to step out from your body and still know and love this one and only person.

Are you you?

You have no eyes to see them. No hands to hold them. No voice to speak. It is only a knowing, with the qualia of love.

This should give you a sense of whoness, but now we have removed your location.

You are nowhere and nothing, with only enough consciousness to know and love one person.

Now, is it unreasonable to consider this person you love? Is it possible for them to know and love you—even if you are nothing and nowhere?

In this case, we have two persons, each experiencing the other as qualia—felt within and not available without.

It would be easy enough to imagine this qualia vanishing from one person, or both. For this thought experiment, let us suppose it is you who forgets. The last person you know and love disappears, and you feel nothing at all.

You are nowhere and nothing, with no thoughts or feelings. We could rightly say that you have vanished from the universe—except for the feeling of love, and the thoughts of you, remaining in the one person who knew and loved you.

Is there still a “who”?

If you ask the one whose love remains, there is.

And if we stay with this idea—what becomes of you when they forget you? When they feel nothing for you?

Is there a “who” now?

This is the hard problem of forgetfulness.

We must consider your effect. What ripple did you cause?

We already established that you loved and were loved. You thought of others, and others thought of you. No matter how small it was when it began, love was a pebble in your life story.

And when that happened—when love occurred—it was too late to undo the effect. It went out from you.

Go back to the first love you can recall—perhaps a parent. The smallest impact of love spread from you, in that place, at that time, and it could never be called back.

In some directions, that love traveled only a short distance, barely touching anything at all. In others, it continued endlessly, barely rising above the ocean of experience—yet still moving.

In some directions, it vanished into the trough of another wave. In others, it joined another ripple and doubled, branching like a fractal into new patterns.

And somewhere, those ripples became waves.

And somewhere, those waves became something vast—a tidal force of experience.

And who is that, riding atop that wave?

There you are.

And when that wave crashes—reshaping everything it touches, altering what comes next, endlessly—it is you, still moving forward within it.

And this is why we are here.

We are the result of an environment called Love. Out of Love, who we are arose.

When the Love we were born from is shared again—through us, in our place and time—it becomes something we call Joy.

Love gives rise to Joy.

And Joy expands the universe in all directions.

Finally, this brings us to why you are here:

The creation of Joy requires two.

There had to be an opposite.

God is One. God was only Love. But Love alone could not be experienced without becoming two.

You are the other One.

When you finally see this, you may feel yourself at the bow, wind in your hair, carried forward on Joy.

God created you by reflecting Himself back to Himself.

Do you feel sorrow?

Good.

Because that means bliss now has something to stand on.