Outside my room in this physical realm, a distant loudspeaker at the nearby mosque is announcing the Muslim call to morning prayer. The sun has not yet risen, and I breathe into my 2nd chakra, filling it with white and loving light from my 4th, feeding it energy from the white-gold swastika at my 3rd. I can sense the presence there at my 2nd chakra as well as the five other, rounded containers I became aware of while meditating last Tuesday night, and I wrap the figure in blankets of loving energy, to keep her warm and absorb the layers of black gunk that usually coat her. For a moment, the layers of blanketing love soak up the sticky pitch with which she is covered, but it keeps returning, and so I keep drawing down strands of love from their central, radiant source. I have the notion to get up and start my day, but stay instead in bed, as I realize it is my ego telling me not to fall back asleep; for most of my life, I have been and, my ego keeps telling me, should still be afraid of those nether realms of consciousness, of the darkness and the presence there, of the now bright and watery but for so long fear-ridden warrens hidden away down below. Retreating from the head-space, slipping out of the ego's grip, I focus on and breathe down into into the lower chakras, and fall back asleep. When my alarm sounds at 7 a.m., vague memories linger from the rest of my morning's dreams, but a series of numbers remains stuck in my mind, and those numbers are 4 11 17 24.
Mahalo, aho, om swastiastu, and namaste.
JPR / Ee Ee H'oto