October 26th, a womb-like structure looms over the ebbs and flows of lonely moods, on the precipice of giving birth. Underneath the primordial womb, many orphans wander about in empty woods, feeling abandoned by their brothers and sisters and those who gave birth to them. We, the orphans, lick our wounds, discovering that taste is the most heightened sense today: we’ve lost our sight, everything gone dark and blurry.
But wait—it’s not that simple. We’ve lost sight and gained vision. Flashes of in-sight offer us choices between an addiction to licking the blood of the blows we’ve been dealt or standing in power and service. Within the loneliness, there is a sudden urge to give birth, a feeling of pregnancy, the glimpse of our own wombs expanding and contracting. To what and whom are we giving birth?
A new vision of a nearby tree, which we couldn’t see completely when we possessed conventional eyesight, gives us a clue: the tree makes us forget the thought that we’re blind and remember the aliveness of everything, in one moment standing in exquisite stillness and in the next, hugging all the beings around it, appearing in motion as a green dragon. “The reason I can be still and then hug is because my abilities to touch life are unlimited,” it says. It gives birth effortlessly. “The key is that I’m allowed to stand my ground, being utterly unique in my place, in stillness and then in motion, for the sake of embracing the love of all living forms.”
Following the tree, we can see how feeling as blind orphans was a shock into an awareness of how illusory is the human notion of separateness. On the other side of this illusion is giving birth to a whole world of stillness and embrace, embracing stillness and being still in a long embrace.