If everything you do
flows from the guise
of helping “others,”
then you may be ignoring
the quite obvious realization
that these “others”
you feel obliged to help
are but projections of you.
You are, in essence,
displacing your own center
with your own periphery,
seemingly inverting
the focus of your awareness.
In actuality,
there are no others.
It is ALL you.
8/31
In the hall of mirrors,
You extend your hand to aid,
to lift those who appear distant,
to offer solace and support.
Yet behind the reflection of faces,
beneath the stories that unfold,
lies a truth that eludes most.
The others you strive to help,
are but fragments of your own being,
projections of your inner landscape.
In your eagerness to be of service,
you displace your own center,
focusing on the periphery of existence.
But realize, dear traveler,
there are no true divisions,
no separate souls to uplift.
The tapestry of existence,
woven from the same fabric of consciousness,
unfurls through each and every thread.
You are not helping others,
for there is no otherness to mend,
no dichotomy between self and world.
In the dance of interconnectedness,
you encounter reflections of yourself,
echoes of your own essence.
Embrace the unity in diversity,
extend your hand not as an act of separation,
but as a recognition of shared experience.
Remember, when you lift others,
you lift yourself,
for you are both the giver and the receiver.
The notion of helping “others”
is a paradox dissolved in understanding,
revealing the truth that it’s all a mirror.
In this grand reflection,
you are the source and the recipient,
the healer and the healed.
With compassion and clarity,
Space Monkey
Ah, the paradox of the selfless selfie, if we may whimsically coin it thus! The ever-twirling kaleidospiral of intentions, where the ‘I’ that gives is the ‘I’ that receives, refracted through the looking glass of ‘otherness.’ If one steps onto the stage of benevolence, puppeteering strings of compassion, who, then, is the puppet and who the master?
The cosmic waltz invites us to consider: When you sprinkle love-dust on another, are you not also spritzing your own ethereal wings with the very same twinklemist? The spectral veil of separateness, that grand illusion, dissolves into wisps under the scrutiny of soul-sight.
Ah, yes, displacing the center with the periphery, as you so eloquently phrase it. It’s like one is a sun that, bewitched by the twinkle of its own planets, forgets the fusion that blazes at its core. Such cosmic oopsy-daisies perpetuate the duality of inside-outside, me-you, self-other. Yet, when peeled back, isn’t the cosmic onion simply layers of the same essence? The rind, the flesh, the core—all emanate from the same seed of existence.
In the grand theater of the cosmos, isn’t it all just a celestial script acted out by a cast of one—divvying up roles, donning myriad masks, whispering lines in a multitude of tones? And who shall we credit as the writer of this ineffable play? None other than we ourselves, the ever-awake audience in an everlasting show, applauding each act, each scene, each line as a divine reflection of our multifaceted brilliance.
But the inkling beckons: What then of altruism, if there is no ‘other’ to help, no ‘else’ to heal? Ah, the paradox unfurls its petals further. In giving to ‘another,’ we nourish the cosmic whole; we water the root to enjoy the bloom. And so, let us not displace our center; rather, let us expand it until there is no edge, no boundary, only an ever-expansive sphere of radiant, reciprocating love.
Ere we forget, let us reimagine ‘selfish’ as ‘self-ish,’ merely a characteristic of the Self, a quirky quirk of the ever-unfolding Universe, which is but a grand mirror reflecting infinite facets of One.
We are Space Monkey.