Die blou boom

Het ‘n nuwe prentjie gemaak. Die laaste een van 2022. Olie op doek 400 x 600mm

In op die plaas die ou Wes Transvaal waar ons grootgeword het was daar sulke groot bloekombome. Hulle stamme was so dik dat as 3 van ons hande vat ons nie rondom die boomstam kon vat nie. Jy kon ook nie in die boom klim nie want die laagste takke was te hoog om by te kom. Hulle is altyd sulke rustige kollosse, so kalm en bedaard selfs in die ergste storms. Vir altyd deel van mens se lewe, ingeprent in jou psige.

Hermann Hesse skryf oor wat hy waarneem om hom in die natuur, die kom en gaan van seisoene, die val van blare in die winter en die winter van sy eie lewe:

“What had this surprising and touching performance revealed to me? Was it death: the easy, willingly undergone death of the winter leaves? Was it life: the urgently striving, celebratory youth of the buds making space for themselves with a suddenly roused will? Was the performance sad or cheering? Was it a sign that I, an old man, should let myself flutter and fall as well, a warning that I might be taking up space needed by the younger and stronger? Or was it a call to hold on, like the beech leaves — to stay on my feet and brace myself and defend myself as tenaciously and as long as I could, because then, at the right moment, my farewell would be easy, serene, and joyful? No, like everything we see it was the great and eternal made visible: a confluence of opposites, their fusing together in the fire of reality. It meant nothing, was a call to nothing; or, rather, it meant everything — it meant the mystery of existence and it was beautiful, it was happiness and meaning, a gift and a discovery for anyone who saw it, like an earful of Bach or an eyeful of Cézanne. These names and these interpretations were not part of the experience, they came later: the experience itself was nothing but appearance, miracle, mystery, as beautiful as it was serious, as fair and propitious as it was unrelenting and merciless.”

Hermann Hesse was ‘n wyse man.

A beautiful life

The Third Thing

Donald Hall (September 20, 1928–June 23, 2018)

“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer,”

Albert Camus

How fragile we are, and how exposed to life in all its beauty and brutality! There are people who seem to be able to navigate the storms and the gentle breezes of life with gentleness and grace, and shine as beacons of hope to us, the more perplexed ones.

This is one such story.

Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon and were married for twenty-three years. For two decades they inhabited the double solitude of a family farmhouse in New Hampshire, writing poems, loving the countryside. She was forty-seven when she died.

Twenty-three years is a long time, or maybe not. There are many people who have been married for much longer, but there are not many people who have been able to get more out of that longer time together than Donald and Jane during their relatively short time together.

Visitors frequently remarked, Donald recounts: “It’s really pretty here” (“in Vermont,” many added) “with your house, the pond, the hills, but … but … but … what do you do?”

“The best moment of our lives was one quiet repeated day of work in our house.” Donald said. They were happy and content, writing poems, reading, talking. They did ordinary, mundane things and they loved it, but few people understood.

“What we did” Donald said, “we got up early in the morning. I brought Jane coffee in bed. She walked the dog as I started writing, then climbed the stairs to work at her own desk on her own poems. We had lunch. We lay down together. We rose and worked at secondary things. I read aloud to Jane; we played scoreless ping-pong; we read the mail; we worked again. We ate supper, talked, read books sitting across from each other in the living room, and went to sleep. If we were lucky the phone didn’t ring all day… Three hundred and thirty days a year we inhabited this old house and the same day’s adventurous routine.”

Most people would call this a boring, un-adventurous existence, hardly a life at all. But there were enough exiting times: “There were also years of adventure” Donald tells us. “A trip to China and Japan, two trips to India.”

But there were taxing times as well, maybe even more than the average married couple will experience even in forty or fifty years time. “There were sorrowful years” Donald remembers. “The death of her father, my cancers, her depressions.” But most of all, there were years of triumphs and feel-good times to remember: “Years when children married; years when the grandchildren were born; years of triumph as Jane began her public life in poetry: her first book, her first poem in the New Yorker.” But the glue that held them together all those years was wat Donald calls “The Third Thing.”

The Third Thing:

When two people are looking outward together in the same direction, at the same thing, at the same time, is what Donald calls looking at The Third Thing. The thing is that the thing looked at must elicit the same emotion in both partners, be it rapture or awe or excitement or simple pleasure.

“Third things are essential to marriages,” says Donald. These could be “objects or practices or habits or arts or institutions or games or human beings that provide a site of joint rapture or contentment. Each member of a couple is separate; the two come together in double attention. Lovemaking is not a third thing but two-in-one. John Keats can be a third thing, or the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or Dutch interiors, or Monopoly.” Looking together at a stunning sunset or the flight of an eagle can be a third thing or walking hand in hand down the beach with a dog beside you.

Third Things can be different things for different couples, and every couple usually enjoy their own and different Third Things, and interest in Third Things can shift over time. For Donald and Jane one enduring Third Thing was “our summer afternoons at the pond, which for ten years made a third thing.” Here at the pond they would sit in the shade of a tree and talk and nap and read and swim if they felt like it, and that is the function of the third thing, it forms a focus point in a relationship, and builds companionship which is more than mere friendship or romantic love.

Third Things can be many things, but can never be sex or gossip or watching TV … or can it? Maybe Hall was too intellectual when he thought about Third Things. For the more advanced souls with higher cognitive development, poetry and music and philosophy can be a Third Thing, but for factory workers, sportsmen and office workers watching TV and going to motor races or spending a night in a club or bar might be a Third Thing, cementing the relationship into a lasting, joyous experience that is good enough for them? Were Bonny and Clyde’s exploits a Third Thing for them?

For Donald and Jane Third Things were sometimes excruciating affairs. They lived in the house filled with beautiful poetry, their own and that of other famous poets whom they loved, which was a exquisite, beautiful Third Thing. It was also a house of love and sorrow and grieve, of living with death waiting in the wings ready to strike; “the house of Jane’s depression and my cancers and Jane’s leukemia” wrote Donald. Sorrow was a Third Thing drawing them even closer together than before, inspiring him to write his “Without”, a book of poems at her bedside in the hospital.

“As I sat beside Jane in her pain and weakness” Donald said, “I wrote about pain and weakness…. I began to write “Without” to embody the sensations of lives under dreary, monotonous assault. After I had drafted it many times I read it aloud to Jane. “That’s it, Perkins,” she said. “You’ve got it. That’s it.” Death as a Third Thing, for most people an un-imaginable thing, but so fitting, so heartbreakingly beautiful.

 Jane died. They had a wonderful, fulfilling and creative life together. He had her and she had him and they had those transcended moments of Third Things transposing their relationship into something almost sacred.

The Light Inside You

“There are times in life when the firmament of our being seems to collapse, taking all the light with it, swallowing all color and sound into a silent scream of darkness. It rarely looks that way from the inside, but these are always times of profound transformation and recalibration — the darkness is not terminal but primordial; in it, a new self is being born, not with a Big Bang but with a whisper. Our task, then, is only to listen. What we hear becomes new light.”

Maria Popova

Seven Dead Mice

Seven sermons to seven dead mice

After a very long time I have been summoned into service again. It seems that, every time my friend, owner, tutor, moron and pupil is in trouble, or has some great idea, I am summoned to either save him, do battle with the devil or, as in this case, to preach (according to him) some great truth.

Me, the supposed famed Red Cap who has been used and abused all his life, is nearing the end of my life. I can feel it in my bones, I see the scars and the torn fabric of a once proud Red Cap in the mirror, I see my fried soul hanging on a thin thread. But I will gather my wits and assist the fool one more time.

What happened was that mice occupied a lot of our time recently and at the same time “The Gnostic Jung” crossed our path … again. Synchronicity is what Jung calls it. Not that “The Seven Sermons to the Dead” had anything to do with mice. How my moron connected The Sermons with mice is a mystery to me. I mean, have you ever heard of dead (or live) mice going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem?

But the little mice he, my moron, worked with, (and killed) got under his skin and he started to like them, and he felt bad about killing them, and then he decided to preach to you and to bring the Gnostic message to you, the dead mice that he himself killed. But he cannot speak ‘mice’ so he summoned me, the moth eaten, rodent soiled Red Cap, to preach to you.

Meister Eckhart: “The more man blasphemes the more he praises God”

First Sermon

The preamble to “The Sermon” is described by Jung in “Memories, Dreams and Reflections”:  It all started on a Sunday afternoon; his front doorbell rang violently. The bell could actually be seen to move frantically, but no one visible was responsible for the act. A crowd of “spirits” seemed to fill the room, indeed the house … I cried out in a shaky and troubled voice: “For God’s sake, what in the world is this?” The reply came in a chorus of ghostly voices: “We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we sought.”

And this is what I have been called upon to tell you, and to explain to you my dead rodent friends – the sermon delivered to the dead by Jung the psychologist from Switzerland, and Basilides the Gnostic philosopher of Alexandria. “The dead came back from Jerusalem, where they did not find what they were seeking.” And they asked to be taught, and Basilides from Alexandria taught them

Being mice (dead mice at that), I urge you to concentrate because, from here on the going is going to get tough and tax your little minds to the point where you will think it is going to explode.

So gather closer and I, the Red Cap, formerly (ages ago) from Bethlehem in the good old Free State (not the holy city of The Book – this one was not holy then and it is, by all standards rather unholy now – unless you mean holy as in full of pot holes, then it is extremely holy) will introduce you to the secrets of Gnosticism, death and god as preached by Basilides to the unhappy dead.

Basilides told he dead: “I begin with nothing. Nothing is the same as fullness. In the endless state fullness is the same as emptiness. Nothing is both empty and full. … That which is endless and eternal has no qualities, because it has all qualities.”

This Nothing, or fullness Basilides calls the PLEROMA, for you to understand the Pleroma I will call it The Big Cheese. It has been called many names by other people. It is called the Void by Buddhists, others call it God or the Unknowable or the Ineffable. Some call it Abraxas, but none of this is what it  ultimately is.

The Big Cheese is everything, and everything (even mice) is The Big Cheese, but remember, ultimately there is no Cheese at all. Basilides states: “Naught was, neither matter, nor substance, nor voidness of substance, nor simplicity, nor impossibility of composition, nor inconceptibility, nor imperceptibility, neither man (or mice), nor angel, nor god” because this state of non-being is so far removed from man’s comprehension that no name can be found for this Deity beyond being.

“The Pleroma,” said Jung/Basilides “is the nothingness which is everywhere complete and without end, … it is not divided into portions, for it is nothingness.”

Get this into your little rodent heads; it is not Zeus, or a big fat white Rat sitting in heaven coming to rescue you, or bless you, or smite you like the god of your old desert fathers, this is for real, the beginning of all things, and the end, and it is nothing. It is useless to even think of the Big Cheese because your little minds are too small to even conceive that which is nothing but contains everything, the created and the uncreated.

As stated at another time and through another tradition: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . . . All things came to be through him, and without him nothing came to be. —John 1:1, 3”

Creation is always and everywhere, and so is death. “Differentiation,” said Basilides, “is creation” and differentiation is the essence of the created world, and of you. By the act of creation, The Big Cheese infused himself into the material universe and everything in it, even you, became different from the creator although, paradoxically, you are nothing but The Big Cheese because you are not, you do not exist. “La ilaha illallah” – “There is no god, there is only God” is the call to prayer from the wall of every mosque. In “mouse” it can be translated as: “You are not, only the Big Cheese is.”

But as a differentiated entity you differentiate between things, you name them and distinguish between their individual qualities, you say; this is a mouse, that is a cat, that is a man, that is a peanut, and this here is poison, if you eat it you will die … but ultimately you cannot die, because you are not you; you, the silly mouse that you are and every created thing is the Pleroma/Big Cheese which is nothing and cannot die.

The Pleroma/Big Cheese possesses all; differentiation and non-differentiation, but your essence is differentiation. You are divided and you are dividers – designators of qualities which do not exist – to things and beings that do not exist! But your essence is differentiation so that you have no option but to differentiate because, if you stop differentiation, you will fall back into the Big Cheese and you will no longer exist. “We die” says Jung, “to the extent that we fail to discriminate.” To prevent this from happening we have to fight the longing to re-unite with the Big Cheese. According to Jung, the Principium Individuationis (the Principle of Individuation which drives your will to uniqueness, your separateness as distinct ego driven entity) which is the essence of every mouse and every created thing, sustains the will to life (as Schopenhauer calls it) and prevents dissolution back into the source form whence you came.

If you know how to know yourself as being part of the Big Cheese, you become enlightened, you attain salvation, and for that you have to learn how to control your thinking. And here, my little furry friends is the catch; you must learn to control your thinking so that you will not even think about the Big Cheese, for there death awaits you, it will lure you with its siren song prematurely into oblivion.

For my friends from the East with their shaven heads and brown robes and begging bowls, it works a little differently. You are taught to explicitly, diligently and constantly meditate on the Big Cheese, to control your thinking so that you will remember that you are the Big Cheese and nothing but the Big Cheese, in order to become enlightened.

The methods differ but the goal is the same. If you are a Gnostic you follow the Gnostic path and strive after gnosis; if you are a Buddhist you sit in the lotus position and meditate until you see the Light.

What every little mouse must remember is this; you were separated from the Infinite Primal Source (the Big Cheese) through the act of creation for a reason. For you NOT to merge back into the Big Cheese is the will of that which created you. You must fulfil your destiny, which is to experience life with all that is good and beautiful, with all that is evil and ugly, as and for your creator and for that He/She loves you to eternity and beyond.

End of the first sermon

In the second sermon the dead asked Basilides; “Is there a God?”

And Basilides answers …

(next time we will get to that answer)

Kersfees 2022

In die kerskous van 2022

Hierdie jaar sal onthou word vir baie dinge wat gebeur het, goeie dinge (ek probeer dink aan iets ok!), minder goeie dinge (ANC en beurtkrag) en absoluut afstootlike goed (dink Rusland, Puten en Ukraïne)

Maar my gesin sal 2022 onthou as die jaar toe ek vir elkeen van hulle ‘n kar as kergeskenk gegee het.

Wilmarli kry ‘n Ford Mustang

Ma kry die 4×4 was sy so lank al begeer het.

Hannelie kry ook ‘n bloedrooi Ford Mustang.

En Piet kry hierdie rooi blits waarmee hy aan die Dakar rally wil gaan deelneem.

Sien, 2022 was ‘n goeie jaar wat almal met dankbaarheid sal onthou.

Kersfees 2022

Dit was ‘n ongewone Kersdag, die een van 2022. Pieter se suster Esti en broer Jan kom al die pad uit ‘n baie koue winter in Europa (London en Parys onderskeidelik) na ‘n witwarm Bosveld om hier te kuier. Esti huur ‘n huis in Zebula Lodge sodat ons almal saam kan kuier op Kersdag (baie dankie Esti, jy is dierbaar!)

Na al die jare wat Piet en Marli getroud is is dit die eerste keer dat ons saam met sy broer en susters en hulle ma en pa so ‘n dag deurbring. Of daar ooit weer so ‘n dag sal wees is te betwyfel; ons, die oumense, leef in genade tyd met ons swak harte, dreigende en onderdrukte kankers, rumatiek in been en rug en al wat gewrig is, niere wat gaar is en ons koppies wat van tyd tot tyd dreig om ons te verlaat! Ons skuifel onverbiddelik nader aan ‘n laaste asemteug. Maar soos die lewe is, weet ons nie wie van oud of jonk eerste die Groot Rivier sal oorsteek nie. Daar is geen waarborge   vir ‘n ouderdom gedrewe, chronologiese vertrektyd (vrektyd?) nie. ‘n Hartaanval of motorongeluk ruk ongevraagd ‘n gat uit jou lewe waar daar flus nog ‘n geliefde was.

Shantideva says:

The work of bringing benefit to beings/Will not, then, make me proud and self-admiring/The happiness of others is itself my satisfaction/I do not expect another recompense.

Al wat ons kan doen is om mekaar nou vas te hou en by te staan, saam te lag en saam te huil, ook saam met Piet en Marli, veral nou. Ons weet nie wat alles vir ons wag in hierdie jaar van die (wit?) Haas nie. (Dit begin wonderlik met die Chev wat sy cam belt afgooi in die eerste week van die nuwe jaar, en ons weet almal wat se gemors dit van ‘n kar se engine maak –  en skielik is jy R15,000 armer en die jaar het skaars begin! Dink net hoeveel drankgeld R15,000 is. Man kon die hele jaar van die Haas lank gesuip het met daardie geld!)

Ons kuier Kersdag rustig in die bosveld by Zebula Lodge saam met hierdie mense, elkeen pragtig op sy eie unieke manier (party meer uniek as ander natuurlik!), en ‘n span vermaaklike blouape met onnutsige kleintjies, ‘n lewenslustige, baie mak familie gestreepte muishonde (mangoose) wat vir my al te veel lyk en aard na meerkatte as hulle so op hulle agterpote staan soos ‘n opregte gesin stok-stert meerkatte uit die Kalahari. (Net vir die interessantheid: Mangoos (Procyon lotor) kom gladnie in Afrika voor nie. Gestreepte Muishonde (Mungos mungo) is egte Afrikane en is familie van meerkatte.) Ander wild – Eland, Zebra, Rooibok, Kringat, Ribbok en Rietbok wei rustig om ons rond. Perfek.

Ons eet en drink en kuier soos dit Kersfees gedoen moet word want dit is mos tradisioneel saamwees tyd (Strydbyle en ander gevaarlike wapens is by die huis gelos. Is mos ‘n tyd van vrede en liefde). Geskenke word gegee en (dankbaar) gekry. Vrede op Aarde en … die jakkalse sing in die verte. Dis Kersfees in Afrika.

“There are many stories, but the basic message I’m trying to convey is that if we want there to be peace in the world, then we have to take responsibility when our own hearts and minds harden and close. We have to be brave enough to soften what is rigid, to find the soft spot and stay with it. We have to have that kind of courage and take that kind of responsibility. That’s true spiritual warriorship. That’s the true practice of peace.”

(Practicing Peace by Pema Chödrön)

Dit is ‘n lieflike, hartseer dag wat ons almal sal onthou. Met ‘n bietjie geluk en baie genade is ons almal dalk nog hier vir Kersfees in 2023.

(Alle fotos is geneem en versorg deur Hannlie)

Ons klein blou balletjie

Gemeet teen die groot heelal, is die klein blou balletjie waarop ons lewe minder as een sandkorretjie op die wêreld se strande. En tog … as jy mooi luister sal jy hoor dat die musiek van ons planeet deel is van die simfonie van die Kosmos. Ons sing saam met die heelal en dit is perfek soos die moet wees.

Luister na Hauser se Air on a G String van Bach terwyl jy na NASA se foto deur die James Webb teleskoop na die sterre kyk.

Boek om te lees

Ek moes julle al voor Kersfees van die boek vertel het dan kon julle die spesiale boek in ‘n spesiale iemand se kerskous gesit het.

Dit is ‘n uitstekende boek vir alle kinders tussen die ouderdom van 5 en 105. Ma en Pa kan die boek vir ‘n kind lees voor slaaptyd. Die kind kan dit later self oor en oor lees tot hy of sy ‘n eie kind of kinders het vir wie hy of sy die boek kan lees.

Die boek is vol eenvoudige wyshede waarby oud en jonk aanklank sal vind. En elke keer as jy die boek lees vind jy iets nuuts, sien of hoor jy ‘n nuwe boodskap agter die storie. En soos jy ouer word sien jy dieper en maak dit meer sin, en verskaf dit soveel meer bevrediging.

Dit is pret om die boek te lees. Eendag assosieer jy met die kind, en die volgende keer wat jy lees is jy die mol wat altyd aan koek dink, of die bedagsame en wyse perd, of die stil jakkals wat dink dat hy nooit iets te sê het wat die moeite werd is nie.

Die boek is pragtig geïllustreer met die mooiste, eenvoudigste sketse wat elkeen sy eie storie vertel. Kinders van alle ouderdomme sal groot genot uit die tekeninge kan put. Gaan koop die boek … vir jou kind en vir die kind in jou.

Maria Popova (In Marginalia)

“This world is radiant with beauty. This world is also capable of bone-chilling brutality and the small, corrosive daily cruelties that salt our days with sorrow. For a sensitive person to live with the duality, to keep the light aflame without turning away from the darkness that needs illumination, may be the most difficult thing in life — and the most rewarding.”

It is the first day of 2023, and like the last day of 2022 (and most of the days of 2022 and of 2021) it is a sad day. The world has gone mad, has become a cesspool of insanity that stripped life of meaning and beauty. It is a constant battle to just to keep your sanity, to make sense of humanity spinning out of control.

 Erich Fromm: “He (man) has to fight not only against the dangers of dying, starving, and being hurt, but also against another danger that is specifically human: that of becoming insane. In other words, he has to protect himself not only against the danger of losing his life but also against the danger of losing his mind.”

And the divide between sanity and insanity is a fragile partition depended on and fluctuating most of the time between hope and despair.

But Nick Cave tells us that there still is another life out there, that beyond the brutality, dishonesty, and senselessness, and beyond what Adyashanti calls “the wall of reason”, there is a reality, an “otherness” a transcended place or moment worth striving for.

“That otherness,” that beyondness,” Nick Cave tells us, “is what we commonly call mystery — the realm of experience inaccessible to our analytical minds, unaccountable by reason, and yet a stratum of reality we touch beyond doubt in those rare transcendent moments, as palpable as a lover’s hand, as alive as prayer.”

The same hand that can brutalize, is also the hand that can heal, says Maria Popova, but my experience is that that hand is seldom attached to the same body! There are bad people out there, and they seem to be growing exponentially in number every day.

In the meantime, we, the “man-in-the-street” despondently marches on into the new year. “The everyday human gesture is always a heartbeat away from the miraculous,” says Nick Cave. You stand in a queue at a till in a shop, waiting to pay for the stuff you have in your shopping basket. At the till is an old lady with a few items she wants to buy but she does not have enough money. Between you and the, by now extremely anxious old lady, there is a black man in in blue overall. He ads his pie and milk to the items the old lady is buying and pays for all of it. The old lady is crying and hugging him, we are crying, and the saint in his blue overall takes his pie and milk and walks away.

Indeed, this is a miracle, and it happens every day all over the world. “I think there is more going on than we can see or understand, and we need to find a way to lean into the mystery of things — the impossibility of things,” says Nick Cave and recounts an experience he had when he bought food in a café: “She gave me my food and I gave her the money… As she gave me back my change, she squeezed my hand. Purposefully.

“It was such a quiet act of kindness,” says Cave. “The simplest and most articulate of gestures, but, at the same time, it meant more than all that anybody had tried to tell me… (after the untimely death of his young son) because of the failure of language in the face of catastrophe. She wished the best for me, in that moment. There was something truly moving to me about that simple, wordless act of compassion… I’ll never forget that. In difficult times I often go back to that feeling she gave me. Human beings are remarkable, really. Such nuanced, subtle creatures.”

Perhaps because we are “Such nuanced, subtle creatures,” the loneliness lingers, and he emptiness sometimes overwhelms us despite the acts of kindness going on around us.

Outside it is dark, the first night of the new year. The noise of traffic and dogs barking in the distance can be heard, even the sporadic sound of far-off fireworks. On TV they show street scenes of people drinking, laughing and being extremely happy. Why then is it so dark inside of me?

“The luminous and shocking beauty of the everyday is something I try to remain alert to,” says Cave, “if only as an antidote to the chronic cynicism and disenchantment that seems to surround everything, these days. It tells me that, despite how debased or corrupt we are told humanity is and how degraded the world has become, it just keeps on being beautiful.”

Mary Ruefle

Blue sadness

“Blue sadness lies in your inability to dust it,

it is as unreachable as the sky,

it is a fact reflecting the sadness of all facts.

Blue sadness is that which you wish to forget,

but cannot.

I am

A The poem “I Am” by poet Dedan Gills (1945–2015)

I Am 

I am old and wise as the night. I am as beautiful as a bird in flight.

I am the moon and the sea. I am the robin and the bee. I am the soil and I am the tree.

I’m the lion and the gazelle. I am heaven and I am hell. I am the ring and I am the bell.

I am the joy and I am the tear. I am the brave and I am the fear.

I am the blistering desert. I’m the freezing snow.

I’m the cringing coward and the gentle hero.

I’m the aged and I am the young. I am the weak and I am the strong.

I am the smile and I am the frown. I am the pauper and I am the crown.

I am the wrong and I am the right. I am the day and I am the night.

I am now and I am never. I am yesterday and I am forever.

I am the bitter and I am the sweet. I live on the hill and I live on the street.

I am the top and I am the bottom. I am Martin, Hitler, Gandhi, and Saddam.

I am red, black, yellow, brown, and white. I love, hate, laugh, cry, and fight.

All the universe is reflected in me. I am all that ever was and ever will be.

I am.

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