I am a broken record. My turntable needle stuck on a particular groove in the vinyl. The record spins round and round, but the same sound emanates from the speaker, over and over again.
For thirty five years I stumbled through life, careering from one ill-fated venture to the next. I never sat down and really thought about what I was doing with my life. But meditation was something that monks did, or people who simply had too much time on their hands. For me it was a case of “Go Go Go”. Until I stopped. Last year. Exhausted and lost.
From my mid-twenties onwards, rather than focusing on my life, I dedicated more and more of my time to the connection with the small electronic device typically found in the left front pocket of my jeans, or the palm of my right hand, or on the bedside table next to me as I slept.
I’m not going to beat around the bush here, I’m not going to filter down my words, connection to that machine, or any machine for that matter, is a bullshit connection. And the more time I spent in connection with that little machine, the less time I spent in connection to myself, and my fellow humans.
As I walk around my Sydney suburb at the moment, Covid-19 hysteria in full swing, it is hard not for me to notice how many people are stood, head slung forward and down, staring at those little machines. I know why they do it, they’re trying to feel alive, they’re trying to feel fulfilled, they’re trying to feel connected in this time of extreme disconnection. I don’t judge them, I feel their pain, but it’s a foolish place to look for answers.
I know, I tried for many years to find answers there too.
You may find intellectual answers; words and images on those little devices that satisfy your intellectual brain, but your heart will exist in a place of lack.
This is the affliction of our times. Our brains are overloaded. Our hearts pitifully under-utilised.
We live so fully in our heads that we’ve almost forgotten what our hearts delight in, forgotten what our hearts need. Forgotten what our hearts can do.
Our hearts need smiles, they need hugs, they need purpose, and meaning. They are devices for the production, delivery, and receipt of love. Your brain simply cannot do that.
Our hearts need meditation. Not medication.
For in meditation we forget about what our thoughts and form tell us, and instead we find what our soul wants, what our soul already knows.
It’s a big ask for me to explain to you what this means in practice, but when the noise of your thinking brain quietens, when the clouds of your past clear and the storm of your future subsides, the blue sky of your soul becomes apparent and light can shine forth from your being, expressing you as the angel you were born to be.
When you realise that you are an angel, sent from heaven, there is no need for disease in your body, there is no need for darkness in your thoughts, there is no need for pills to make you happy.
Meditation is medication.
Prescribed drugs are the third biggest killer in the US. How many people die from meditation? How many know that they can cure almost any ailment, any mental block, any niggle with the power of their spirit, their soul, their heart.
As Krishnamurti once wrote:
“Meditation is the movement of Love”
F**k am I grateful that I found it in this lifetime. Life is unrecognisable since I did. Words cannot explain the bliss, the joy. It is better than any drug. It is such a gift, and one I long to share.
If you’re ready to find out who you really are. If you’re ready to find your best form. Get in touch.