We are nobody

While we are born went through a long tunnel at the end of which is makes it light. It is not known if we cry then joy for us released of narrowness or penalty for leaving a refuge so cozy and mullidito. Writes Julian Peragón (Arjuna).


What really matters is that we are born and are born with the face that does not know where it is but neither cares much. If something important to us, to Delirium, it is a nipple. Otherwise, the dresses of blue or pink, the same bells, matter to us well little.

In those moments when we are pure roundness, are not nothing at all. Just orodondidad, wind, drowsiness, and belching. Nothing that deserves the penalty put in an album. One naturally flows to the whole, appears the cramps and one is relieved without prohibition or guilt (which for that are the diapers); tighten hunger crying skyrockets, appears the Almighty teta and expands the stomach, dissipates hunger and ensuing sleep in chains, rhythmic and sequential nature fluent and harmonic.

And probably in that reality one knows perfectly that is Dios because the elements not be opposed to one but are convened in a magic mysterious. Everything happens without effort. Everything enters and leaves the field of view, MOM, Dad, the teddy bear, the Sun and the moon. One, we would say, is the center of the universe to the turn all the infinity around our.

Drama (if necessary put a Word, although it would equal cataclysm or hecatomb) ensues when from that everything, that all undifferentiated we are, something is disjointed and already we are lost forever. We were in a divinity of sensations and chills, of topical warmth of weightless dreams, and tell us blow (say us in many ways) we whistle not vulva or vulva and not whistle, either, that we are half (or less) of a whole to which we had seized since the amniotic merger.

And permanently (or almost) we will be men or women, our body will develop in one way or another, we will get the beard or have menstruation because hormones, although small, are well powerful.
And the God who we are that it was sheer ineffability, essentially without form, content in a vacuum, is to define supported by rude parents who tell us "the children do this and the girls that".

Being a pure potentiality, recreated in the thousand faces of the divinity, between cradle lullabies they go and call us Juan Ramon or Margarita (or worse). Knowing as we know (since we are gods) meta-language that is locked up in each of human languages and the languages of the plants and the animals, go and speak in Russian or Chinese mandarin, although nowadays it often happens that in the nursery you speak in catalan, the Pope speaks to you in Arabic and mother you sings in Polish. But when you're a little older you have to speak in English for balls.

Well, when you already chapurreas one, two or three languages, you manage your computer and know how to write your name without spelling mistakes, people look at us and don't see the God who we are, the divine spark that burns in our bowels. What they see is that we are high or low, handsome or ugly, and we have blue or dark eyes. And the inner God knows that this is mere circumstance, cooking of genes in the humidity of any uterus, fireworks of any phenotype.

And they try to convince (to achieve this, the very bastards!) you're not that capital letters, but that you are what you see and point that you are a good family or a poor. You that have created the same galaxies have that pass your life thanking that have a face graceful or cursing that have a nose too long or too flat. You have to suck it up because you were born in a caste of untouchables or a family of diplomats.

Is Orchestra the confusion

Arrives one day that the son, offended, says: now you will see who I am. But as it is already maleado, and it has had many mirrors around and you know Russian, but non-Chinese (or vice versa) is entangled with the circumstances, being entertained in the labyrinth of forms and confused his character with the essence. Confuses the harmony with it strategy, it feeling indescribable of be with the recognition acquired socially, it consciousness with the intelligence, the experience with the effectiveness in the realization of all type of ritual.

One day he innocently wondered: and if I instead of in New York was born in Gaza, if my skin instead of being white is black, if instead of talking English I speak Malay, if instead of being born in a city I was born in the countryside between rice paddies?... would have the same life? It is clear that no, but would it be the same as I am, it would have the same gap left by the interiority, the same penetration of consciousness, the same sensitivity to perceive?

Who knows? The only thing clear is that the God or goddess who we were and that already do not remind us, faithful to itself, unwavering in his designs, original where there is one, has had to be converted. It has had to socialize, tame, suppress to be one like the others. We had to be as modern and as democratic as any. Our multidimensional thinking has been leaked in thinking, and we have achieved the award, after so many years of school, be normal people. We have sold the grandeur of being is to a charlatan of fair (with all means of communication at their disposal) for a piece of security hidden in a pill called normality. If you're normal nothing won't be you.

But if it happens. You spend you're not normal, that you're something indescribable come from eternity and eternity and don't understand life insurance. The price of having dismembered the whole that one is is called neurosis. One accuses him as dissatisfaction manifests itself in insomnia, smell in the chronic moodiness or depression.

Perhaps later, probably with more wrinkles in front of the mirror, sensing even a remnant of eternal brightness in his own gaze, one to wonder who is. Who inhabits the depths, who dreams us, who generates hope, who longs for love above all, who is able not to sell for anything in the world. And it is possible that one gets to search in the sediments of the memory, at first-time memories that eternity in the middle of the universe.

But attention. In the heat of the search do not be surprised in the interior of the divinity that we are you there more than echoes of a greater whole, hyperlinks to everything that exists, immaculate and vacuum potential. A huge and indescribable void. And it is, in fact, we are not nothing at all. Our grandfather told him: boy, are not nobody.

Arjuna (photo: Guirostudio 2013)Who is

Julian Peragón, Arjuna, Trainer of teachers, directs the Yoga synthesis school in Barcelona.

He is the author of the book Meditation synthesis (Ed. acanthus)


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By • Jun 28, 2016 • section: Arjuna, Signatures