Vachon Imagined

When we believe what someone is, we start forming gods.

We create permanence.

This is very human.

A little too human, if you know what I mean.

We have a feeling. An idea. An experience. Then we search for a community, a book, a religion, a philosophy—something that agrees with us.

Agreement is powerful.

Belief is powerful.

But neither is as powerful as God.

The ultimate life allowing all things to exist as they are, without a name, an identity, or a permanent address.

Anything that attempts to shape what is already orderly into our order is false.

So when someone says, I am happy, what is actually happening?

A feeling is moving through them.

A thought is moving through them.

An experience they have learned to call happiness is happening.

That may sound pedantic.

You may have needed a Valium just to get through that sentence.

But it is happening.

You don’t need me to tell you.

You can see it when you become quiet.

When life humbles you.

When you realize that life is giving you an experience, not necessarily giving you something to hold.

The feeling comes.

The feeling goes.

The thought comes.

The thought goes.

And still, life remains.

We turn experience into identity because we want something to stay.

I am this.

You are that.

This is who I am.

And suddenly the temporary becomes permanent.

A feeling becomes a self.

A memory becomes an identity.

An experience becomes a god.

Then we defend it.

We build around it.

We find people who agree with it.

We create institutions to protect it.

And eventually we forget that we created the thing we are now worshiping.

But in the room of God, what is a person’s intention?

What is their behavior?

What is their identity?

Nothing permanent.

Not because they are nothing.

Because they are part of everything.

In the room of all creation, all possibility, there is no permanent address for the self.

There is only life.

Moving.

Becoming.

Experiencing itself.

And then calling itself me.