Every inspired thought—each new insight that points to the heights of what we might yet become—serves to enlarge the mind that conceives it. And the grand discovery of that mind touched by any such truth is that within this breaking light is found nothing less than the endlessness of its own possibilities.
Each event and every moment of life brings with it a kind of gift just for us, providing we will receive it. This priceless offering isn't about ways to empower ourselves through possessions or greater position in life; it is presented to free us from the stress and worry born of the false belief that such riches are the road to realizing the value of our True Self.
What is this gift yet to be claimed? What power is there that can make all of life's moments turn brightly golden? Please let neither the simplicity nor the familiarity of the following answer keep you from investigating the secret behind its unimaginable promise: Perfect love casts out fear.
What is “perfect love”? To begin with, it is not an emotion any more than a ray of light is the sun from which it emanates. At present we know love—the highest order of ourselves—through our experience of its various forms passing into and through us; but much as a flute is not the notes that flow from it, neither are any of the “sounds” of love that soothe the soul the same as the perfect love for which it longs and seeks.
Think of a flower opening its soft petals to the welcoming touch of the sun's morning light. Unfolding further, it collects and passes this energy into the fruit growing there in its bud, giving it the food it needs to grow. Holding in mind this picture, see this fruit ripening and falling to the ground and how, in time, its seed becomes the stalk of another flower from which more fruit will be born. Now, as best you can, imagine all of these movements at once; realize that these seemingly individual expressions of life, death, and rebirth taking place in passing time are but one principle, eternally expressing itself, and you have some idea of what love is: nothing is made without its living Light, and all things are made new through its power.
Why does perfect love cast out fear, along with all of the ways that fear compromises us? Because much in the same way as it is impossible for a shadow to live in the light, perfect love ensures that dark divisive states such as fear, anxiety, and depression cannot dwell in the presence of its living Light. Our task, should we wish to walk through life with such a fierce advocate by our side, is to awaken ourselves to the fact of its presence as a power already within us. Where we can find this treasure of treasures—and how we can realize that our True Self is already one with it—that's the question! Let's find some real answers.
We can all see that life is a mystery. What remains unseen is how to solve it. But before we can ever hope to “solve” this enigmatic puzzle that we call our life, we must have all the pieces on the table; and there is one piece to this puzzle most people never find, because this missing piece is our life itself!
Life—this moment and every moment—is a school for the education of the soul. At its heart is an invisible core curriculum, a kind of celestial “program” with one great purpose: to help us realize that behind each of the life lessons that comes our way dwells a Divine, just, and loving Intelligence that wants us to be one with its life.
Imagine how different life would be if we understood that nothing happens to us that isn't sent our way to help us learn more about the eternal nature of love. With such a realization we would know that whatever takes place in our life has not come as something set against our best interests, but to help us realize them!
What prohibits us from awakening to this essential relationship and realizing its power as our own? In a word, resistance. We see life through the eyes of a part of us that instantly opposes whatever challenges its idea about the meaning of life and what's “best” for us in it. This false self refuses or denies anything that threatens the flattering image it has of itself. All in all, the negative effect of our unconscious condition can be stated like this: We have become less intolerant.
Something within us is creating a buffer of some kind—a barrier that stands between our need for liberation and the higher life lessons that help both catalyze and create this transformation of consciousness. Let's look at the two main reasons for this strange indwelling resistance that stands between us and the self-liberation for which we long, starting with the following short story. It's taken from a series of recorded talks entitled Living Now. Its lighthearted message points to a deep indwelling secret about our present level of Self, and its surprise ending gives us our first look at what stands between us and our right to be free.
Once there was a little creature resting on the branch of a mighty Oak that was Father of the forest. The little creature was sitting there sighing, and from time to time crying a little bit—its tiny body almost buckling under some unseen weight. Finally the great old Oak could listen no longer. In a voice belonging to a giant, but that was also as gentle as a breeze, the mighty Oak spoke out:
“Little creature, what is wrong with you?”
The little creature was surprised to feel such concern coming from anyone, let alone the tree in which it was perched. But sensing the overwhelming kindness that came along with the question, it answered as best it knew to do. The words came fairly spilling out its mouth, as if a pent-up stream of water had been waiting to be released.
“Don't you see, that's just it . . . I mean . . . I'm not sure. Well, that's not entirely true.”
“Whoa, slow down there little one,” the Oak spoke in measured tones attempting to quiet the creature. “No need to be in a hurry telling me what you will. I've been standing here for centuries, so I'm not going anywhere. Can you be a little more specific about ‘what’ you're suffering over—and maybe then we can get to the ‘why?’ part of it?”
Somewhat becalmed by these words, the creature started over. “Well, no matter how I look at it, nothing makes sense. I mean . . . I was sure it would be different than this.”
The Oak considered this comment for a moment and asked the only question it could at that point: “What exactly was it that you thought would be so different?”
The little creature came out of its own thoughts for a moment as it realized the tree couldn't see what was so obvious to it.
“Why . . . being a butterfly, of course. When I used to think about becoming a butterfly, I thought to myself my problems would be left behind me—beneath me, if you will . . . but everything still irritates me. And,” the little creature lowered its voice somewhat so as to be sure no one else would hear its next comment, “I'm afraid a lot of the time. I figured that after I had become a butterfly, I just wouldn't have the fears that I used to have, but I still do! And that's not all . . . the past—it bothers me! I was sure that as a butterfly my former life wouldn't be a problem for me anymore.”
The tall Oak tree looked at the little creature and knew instantly what was wrong.
“Yes, I see; what you've said makes a lot of sense now. But, let me ask you a couple more questions. We both need to get to the bottom of this problem if we're going to solve this mystery for you.” And the little creature said, “Oh, thanks so much!”
The Oak continued, “Do you find yourself getting tripped up quite often?”
The little creature thought for a minute and said, “You know what? I do get tripped up. Yes! I trip quite often as a matter of fact!”
“And how about this?” the tree followed up. “Do you spend a lot of time chewing over things?”
“Yes. I spend a lot of time chewing over things.”
“And are there times when it takes you a long time to get out of your own way?”
The little creature was amazed at the accuracy of the tree's questions. “You've tagged it for me! All these things you said about me are true.”
“Well,” the great Oak spoke again. “I think I've figured out the mystery here. Are you sure you want to know the answer?”
“Of course I do,” said the creature, somewhat surprised at the question. “Please go ahead.”
“All right then,” said the tree, carefully measuring out the medicine it knew would be bitter to the little creature clinging to its branch. “Here's the reason for your continuing confusion about why life isn't to your liking: you aren't a butterfly yet;you're still a caterpillar.”
If we hope to receive, realize, and be set free by the higher lessons that life prepares for us in all of our moments, we must bring ourselves into this story. It's worth noting here that wisdom tales, myths, and parables from every age share one thing in common: every character we meet in their stories lives within us; more accurately stated, we embody them, which is one of the reasons we find these truth tales so fascinating!
So, now we need to see what it is that we share in common with the little creature that can't understand its condition because it considers itself to be something it's not. By the way, within us also dwells the strength and wisdom of the great Oak, but we have yet to realize this as well!
The wise old tree knew—as we must come to see about ourselves if we would be free—that as long as the little caterpillar believed it was a butterfly, it would be bound to the Earth. Why is this true? Because in mistaking itself for what it had yet to become—a beautiful butterfly—it would refuse the life “lessons” required of it to complete its natural transformation. This reluctance to receive the shocks that we need is pretty much our condition as well. There are parts of our psychic system that reject the lessons needed for our evolution because they imagine they're already flying above the world of troubles. It is this mistaken sense of self that stands between us and true self-transformation. Which brings us to the second of the secret conditions that keeps us from realizing self-liberation.
Until we can embrace the lessons that ride into our lives on the back of events, we walk through an isolated world of our own making; confined and defined by the content of our own thoughts, we are cut off from reality. And, as long as we remain so, there is no hope of realizing our relationship with that limitless Light from out of whose life pours the lessons intended for our transformation.
So, this much is clear: something within us is acting against our best interests. But what would do this, and why? The following insight helps us to see why our “caterpillar consciousness”—our false self—resists the lessons we need in order to be born anew:
Real learning requires surrender.
Just as we saw how the caterpillar must let go of what it has been in order to realize the butterfly it's been created to become, so too we must yield to what is above us if our wish is to know its freedom as our own. This is the same higher lesson that Christ tried to teach his disciples when he washed their feet against their initial protests that he should not do so. His wish, which is the same as the wish of the Light he embodied, was to reveal the eternal relationship that exists between the greater and the lesser: the greater is continually pouring out its life, giving its light to the lesser. This means that the lesser is made greater each time it surrenders to the greater, because in that moment the lesser becomes the greater; then it understands that greater work of which it is now a part and to which it now wants to give itself again.
To give you a simple idea of this beautiful relationship, think of the way in which a barren winter grapevine yields itself to the first rays of a warm spring sun, drinking in the radiant energy that will—in a few months—be a part of the sweet fruit it grows. In nature we can see this order of relationship law: for one life to “increase,” another must “decrease.” The same holds true within us. We too must yield the still dark and undiscovered parts of ourselves to the light of awareness that transforms them, so that the soul can blossom and bear fruit. This eternal genesis is the secret nature of love, as is its living Light through which we perceive our relationship within it. Our gift in life, should we choose to receive it, is to witness and realize our oneness with this love that never betrays its lover.
As our inner eyes open, and we see that all things come to us for the sake of increasing our trust in this love, the flame of true faith ignites. By its light we see with ever-increasing clarity that nothing happens to us that isn't part of preparing us to transcend—to outgrow—who and what we have been. Our conviction in the goodness of Truth moves past all doubt, and our confidence grows that we've found what we've been looking for all our life. The Light for which we searched is real and now we know it. The first leg of the great Journey is made and now a new task is set before us: to embody the Truth we have found, to serve the celestial powers we once thought should be subjugated to serve us. Now our inner work is to practice being one with this Light whose love has made possible our awakening. The fruit of this union is freedom. Some call it enlightenment. By any other name it is joy. This Life is yours if you give it yours.
An artist's canvas is not the colors that have been played out across it, but rather it is their showplace. In much the same way our higher nature has nothing in common with the rainbow of thoughts and feelings always painting the sky of our present consciousness. True Self doesn't call itself bright or dull depending upon the dominant “shade” of the moment. It is always just Light.
We have all read books or seen animated movies in which, once the “humans” retire for the evening, everything in the kitchen or the child's playroom comes to life.
In Disney's Beauty and the Beast, the cups, dishes, and silverware are all special characters, each with a crucial role. Collectively they help to ensure that love blossoms between the two main characters whose transformation follows as wild flowers do the first spring rain.
In Cinderella, the mice, birds, and even a pumpkin act as a united force to thwart the selfish plans of a wicked stepmother and, in so doing, create the fairytale ending we all know and love. With these images in mind, the story you're about to read also has a very special ending designed to help you realize the secret treasure of your True Self. Let's set the scene:
It was time for bed on a cold New England night. The fire in the cooking stove had died out, and the coals in the hearth had cooled to embers. Everyone moved as quickly as they could to finish their evening chores; visions of snuggling beneath warm bedcovers hurried them along toward bed. And, as was the custom of this small New England family back in the late 1800s, the last one to retire—usually Dad—would snuff out all the candles except for the large one he carried with him on his appointed rounds. This biggest of all the candles would sit out the night—burning bright—in the middle of the kitchen for anyone who needed its light in the darkness of the wee hours. As was the custom back then, much as it remains today, the candle itself sat in a saucer-like holder with a handle for ease of carrying it around.
Now, for the story:
It was an unusually quiet night. Perhaps the new blanket of snow, the first of the season, had something to do with it . . . but none of the usual conversation was going on in the kitchen. The tea cups that loved to gossip about the day's events were silent, and even the sink—whose habit it was to complain every night about the dishes left in it—had nothing to say. It was as though everyone was waiting for something to happen. Only what?
It was the candleholder that finally broke the silence. He was speaking to Ms. Wax—a part of the candle he was holding at the moment, and someone with whom he felt very close. He had always looked up to her as a consequence of their positions in life, but there was an edge to his voice that evening.
“Mind if I say something that's been on my mind?”
“That's never stopped you before!” said Ms. Wax, somewhat teasing him. Besides, she was grateful for the conversation. A moment or two went by without a further word from the candleholder. An unusual tension came over the room.
“I'm all ears,” she said, thinking it would help break the ice. Besides, surely her quip would get a laugh. It had always been considered humorous among nonhuman beings to speak of themselves as having human features. Sure enough, a few chuckles came spilling out of the open cupboards above her; but the candleholder wasn't amused.
“I'm quite serious,” he said a moment later. “There's something that's been bothering me ever since we were put together this way, and I have to get it off my chest.” A few more laughs came from distant corners of the kitchen, but so intent on his conversation was he that the candleholder didn't even hear his own joke. And, for reasons unknown to himself, he fairly whispered what he had to say next.
“I'm jealous of the relationship you have with the flame, how you dance with it through the night so high above me. I have always wanted to know what it feels like to have it touch me the way it touches you.” He paused there to consider his condition, so as to be clear. Then he went on:
“The only relationship I have with the warmth and light of the flame is the little bit of it that spills over the edge of your body to reach mine.” He paused again—already uncertain whether he should have made this confession. So he waited for her to say something, but nothing came; the seconds that passed felt like an eternity. Surely, he thought to himself, I've made a fool of myself, but just as he was falling into a pool of dark thoughts her next words saved him.
“That's so strange,” she said, “that you should tell me this now. You see I feel the same way that you do!”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” blurted out the candleholder, clearly irritated with her comment. “Every night you and Mr. Wick are joined together with the flame in a way I will never know. What can you possibly know of the isolation I endure down here below? I hold you both, and yet . . . I have no direct relationship with the flame as you do.”
“Oh,” sighed Ms. Wax aloud, “if only you knew.”
“Knew what?!” he retorted, growing even more impatient with her seeming insensitivity to his plight.
“What it's like to be me . . . ,” she said in tones meant to melt his heart. “You wish you could be like me, but you don't know the half of it. Each night I pour myself into Mr. Wick so that the flame can burn true and bright, but it's not me who knows this light as you imagine I do. You see,” she went on, measuring her words so that the candleholder might better understand her condition, “it's not me, but it's Mr. Wick that has it best of all. The flame may use me, but it takes him with it as it burns. His is the life; how I wish I was Mr. Wick!”
At that instant a third voice broke into their conversation, and it came from Mr. Wick himself. His words would have seemed rudely spoken under other circumstances, but his tone told them otherwise:
“Neither one of you understand what you're talking about.” Their silence bid him to carry on.
“Yes, it's true: the flame dances all around me, consuming me as it does, but still I am not a part of it as you imagine. So you both have it all wrong: far from being at peace with my place in life, though I wouldn't change the way things are, the flame never really allows me to rest. And I think it's important for you to know that its beautiful light is more unknown to me than it is to you.”
“What you say can't be true,” said Ms. Wax.
“How is that possible?” said the candleholder almost at the same time.
“I doubt you will understand,” said Mr. Wick, adding that he intended no insult. “But because of how close I am to it, I am blinded by its light. I can neither see it nor be with it as you imagine.” And then, as if to finalize the conversation that, in truth, he felt was no one's business but his own, he said, “So, enough with what you wish you had and don't! I am no different from you. My longing to be one with the flame never stops burning.”
Then something happened that had never happened before, at least as far as anyone knew. Such events had only been written about in stories. Yet . . . there it was: the flame itself began to speak. As it did, a gentle light poured out from it, filling every corner of the kitchen; the whole room pulsated with the rhythm of its carefully chosen words.
“My friends . . . Please listen to me. Stop your complaining. You know not what you say. We all share the same wish.” The flame waited before it spoke further, taking the collective silence in the room as consent for it to continue on.
“Just as the three of you long to draw nearer to me, to this flaming body of mine that you can feel and see, so I long to be one with the Light that grants me my life.” Again the flame paused. “Don't you see, my friends? What is true for you is true for me, which is why you are mistaken if you seek to draw nearer to me. I am not the source of myself—any more than a spring branch creates the fruit that grows on a tree. And there's something else you should know as well.” The flame spoke in slow and carefully measured tones, indicating it was about to say something important:
“Without each of you—as you are—being and doing as only you can—we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we? I know it's difficult to grasp, but we are all a part of the very thing we seek.”
This story offers us a hint about what may be the greatest mystery of all. Christ spoke of it when he told his disciples, “For I tell you that many kings and prophets have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them” (Luke 10:24).
In the original Hebrew, the language spoken by Christ in his time, the meaning of these words—“to see those things which ye see”—is not what it seems at first glance. The first use of the word to see in this text doesn't mean to literally see something, as in an object perceived. In this instance the word indicates the idea that one receives direct knowledge—a personal understanding—of what is seen, as can only be granted by one's awareness of its invisible character.
In the second use of the word to see in this quotation, we find its common meaning: to look or gaze upon something, or someone (outside of yourself). So, the “hidden” story in this passage tells us two things: first, that Christ's disciples were awakening to a whole new kind of perception: they could “see” that in order to know real life—to take part in the perfection of the greater kingdom to which they were called—they would have to be one with it. They were coming to understand that this kind of higher seeing and true being were one and the same reality.
Within this same passage from Luke—“Many kings and prophets have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them . . .”—also shines the light of another great truth that is the secret message in the story about the candle and the flame: what we seek cannot be seen with our physical eyes nor dreamed of with thought. The only way to know the Light that never dies, that Love that is the unseen source of the flame we see and are drawn to, is to become one with its Life.
Now, as a necessary part of our work, let's examine how we can realize our inherent oneness with this indwelling Light—even as the flame in our story longed to know the Light of its source. To answer these questions concerning the achievement of an illumined life, we start with a strange discovery:
We read in the New Testament, and other timeless religious writings as well, that “taking thought” about tomorrow—searching for ways to enhance ourselves—can neither diminish our fears nor add anything of true value to our life; yet in these same teachings we find no real “how to” stop being identified with thoughts that trouble us about our future.
We also hear that one must have faith to move “mountains”—but again, no mention of “how to” call upon this power to clear the way before us. Now let's uncover why the enlightened ones never speak in terms of “how to” be free.
The word mountain—as used in this familiar passage of Christ's teaching—doesn't mean a physical barrier, as in something standing between us and a hoped-for position or possession we've imagined will bring us security and peace. The original Hebrew language implies that this “mountain”—that only faith can move out of our way—is not a physical barrier of any kind; it is more a psychological obstacle that “rises to meet (us)”—much as the way fear never enters into the picture of some new plan of ours until we imagine losing the reward that might come with it. Here we are taught that mountains are molehills of our own making that come into existence the moment we set out to increase ourselves in a time to come.
So faith is not a power meant to deliver us the worldly pleasures or treasures we imagine will set us free. Here we can see that real faith has nothing to do with wanting to possess or prevent anything. Its true nature is a new order of freedom that comes with being able to see through the false idea that who we really are needs praise or possessions in order to be happy and whole. In other words, as we realize that the contentment we long for already lives within us, we are empowered to tell that “mountain” of discontented thoughts and feelings to “move out of the way.” It must obey our command. Let's examine this same important insight from a slightly different angle.
The real power behind faith is found in the Light within us that shows us what's true, and what's not, about who and what we are in reality. This insight helps explain the old adage that “the truth sets us free,” because it means that in moments of trial our enlightened self-understanding actually “goes before us” to make the right choice for us! Rather than search outside ourselves for a solution to our suffering—as when we look for someone to tell our troubles to—or run after the promise of some new “power” to escape the shadow of a fear, we deliberately drop these old reactions in favor of quietly remembering what we know is true: there's nothing that we need to do to get past any dark shadow that shows up in our life except to be the Light that already lives within us. If we do our part, the rest is done for us.
Do try to see this oh-so-subtle truth that the flame in our story wanted to teach his friends. The candleholder, Ms. Wax, and Mr. Wick did not understand that they were already a part of the Light for which they longed; though the Light lived within them, they knew it not. The same holds true for us! Nothing is missing from our lives except for our not yet awakened ability to see this essential truth: just as fire needs wood to express its warmth and light, so too do we need the “darkness” of what we have yet to understand about ourselves. Let me explain this life-changing idea:
It rarely occurs to us, but there is a greater potential in what we don't yet know about this life of ours than there is in what we've already seen about it. So this great undiscovered territory—this “darkness” within us—is there for a distinctly Divine purpose: it exists as it does to serve the Light that reveals it; for in each such revelation there is a simultaneous realization and release of a new order of consciousness. There is such beauty in this idea, for it speaks to the possibility of a continual rebirth within us. What this means to us, and much to the heart of this book, is that we don't yet see “problems” for what they really are: a part of the Light within us that we have yet to perceive! Any thought or feeling that troubles us in mind or heart, any fear or worry, is like a candle not yet lit. What purpose has any flame or light—in any form we may find it—other than to enter into and transform what is dark into more of itself?
For instance, maybe we turn around one day and find ourselves caught in the dark grip of some kind of fear. Perhaps we see the one we love “looking the other way”; maybe a phone call delivers uncertain news about our deteriorating health; or someone tells us about a forthcoming change at work that threatens our sense of security.
In moments such as these, our future grows dark as it seems full of the loneliness, worry, and loss we see coming our way. But our lives need not be swallowed up in unconscious servitude to this kind of suffering. We have another choice if we will only dare be still and be the Light. Here now are some ways to practice realizing the truth of your Self. Each case begins with remembering to make the new choice that follows:
After many years of talking to aspirants about being the Light instead of searching for what they think they need to deal with their dark states, I have found there is one main reason most people won't take the leap of releasing their fears into the Light that lives within them. They profess a love of the Light, but whenever an unwanted moment appears, and they look into its unknown abyss . . . they see no Light there, only darkness. Then comes an immediate resistance, and darkness rules the day. Let me shed some light on this problem. Things are not always as they are seen.
Do you recall the wonderful characters in The Wizard of Oz? Along with Dorothy—who was trying to find her way back home—there were the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion: her compatriots on the journey to see the great wizard who would grant each of them their most fervent wish.
The scarecrow wanted a brain, a mind with which to reason and know the truth of things. The tin man hoped for a heart to beat in his hollow tin chest, so that by its warmth and rhythmic beating he would know the presence of the love for which he longed; and the cowardly lion wanted courage to face his fears, to meet any form of darkness with what it takes to defeat it. By the end of the story—largely as a result of what they go through because of their love for Dorothy—each makes this glad discovery: the very quality of character for which they had gone out searching was already living within them!
So it is with us: we have forgotten that who we really are cannot be made a captive of any dark condition any more than a sunbeam can be caught and held in a bottle. Our True Self is success itself, in every meaning of the word, because by its Light it fulfills and liberates all that it touches.
Never mind all the voices you'll no doubt hear shouting at you the first time you decide to be the Light of your Self. That which is dark does not go gently through being made new and bright. So there is work involved. But unlike all our former achievements that we see crumble beneath us even as we mount them for a temporary high, the Light we realize within us never fails; it literally carries us above whatever mountain is before us by revealing it to be nothing other than what we had yet to see about ourselves.
We cannot control the way the world turns, we cannot change day into night, we cannot keep what is not ours; and we cannot hide these facts from ourselves, no matter how hard we try. But what we are given to do, and that turns out to be the one power of ours truly capable of transforming the whole of life, is that we can choose—moment to moment—to be the Light of our Self. We are created as co-creators of all that we can be conscious of within ourselves. It is our right to be in relationship with only those powers whose presence serves our chosen purpose in life . . . which is to be one with the Light.