Mankind has largely become a hall of mirrors, each man reflecting the thoughts, feelings, and actions of others around him. Very little original thought is found in this maze of confusing images. Tiresome clichés and stale opinions jump from mirror to mirror as people parrot one another in a chorus of sameness and history repeats itself, seemingly ad infinitum.
Subjection. Oppression. Revolution. Liberation. Subjection. Oppression. Revolution… Round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows.
Looking ahead or behind, to the left or the right, endless rows of facsimiles provide the comfort of continuity while appeasing man’s gregarious instincts — “At least I’m not alone!” — and anything new or different is immediately met with suspicion, if not derision. Even truth is rejected in this carnival man has created for himself if it does not conform to prevailing opinion or popular image.
Instead of being mirrors of their environment, men ought to be radiant points of light, a shining example of the principle: “as above, so below, as inside so without.” True thinking is rightly activated by the spirit of love and always conforms with the principles of truth. The outcome of true thought is creative, harmonious activity. All that is created on this basis is never contradictory, confrontational or divisive, for truth is never in conflict with itself.
That said, the solidarity created by true thinking, oneness, does not become tedious sameness. The product of love and truth is fresh, invigorating, infinitely varied, melodious, and beautiful. Bring to mind any words of truth you have heard spoken. Do they not ring true, literally and figuratively? Do they not fit the moment, regardless of the time they are considered, or complement other truths you have come to know? Or consider a time when you were felt love. Was it not glorious, uplifting, exhilarating, unifying? Did it not feel special, unique, though you only had one word to describe it: “love?”
The world we have created for ourselves is the product of choices we’ve made, of thinking we’ve done, individually and collectively, through the ages. According to the legends and traditions in every corner of the world, it was a very different place when it first came to be. If it was at one time a garden of perfection and not a hall of horrors, doesn’t it make sense that we could return to that state? Couldn’t “In the beginning…” refer to this beginning, any beginning? Couldn’t the promise of creation be available to us today, here and now?
I believe so, yet to make it so we have to move from acknowledgement to acceptance to actualization. We cannot just admit to ourselves that it might be possible and sit around twiddling our thumbs waiting for our neighbor or some leader to do it or biding our time for the so-called “second coming.” We have to act now, in the beginning, in THIS beginning. Every thing you undertake, ever conversation you engage in is a beginning, the beginning of a creative (or destructive) process.
How we begin has a large influence on where we go and how far we get. Our inner orientation determines the trajectory of our outer achievements. Its as simple as that. If we center in love and truth, we create on that vector. If we are compelled by hate or lies, our thoughts, words, and actions will carry and magnify that spirit.
It’s life or death, unreality or reality. The choice is ours. The choice is yours.
Which would you prefer?
2 thoughts on “Hall of Mirrors”
Great post! I absolutely agree with this, and I think the biggest problem here is that hardly anyone believes they exist in a “hall of mirrors” in the first place. We love living with the illusion that we are free and capable of original thought, and we are so content with our echochambers that we make that our reality. Only by recognizing that, like you said, our world is the culmination of everything we choose, sense, experience and perceive, can we begin the journey toward freedom.
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Thank you C&C. I agree! The temporary relief of accepting the illusion pales in comparison to the profound comfort of truth.
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