In this incantation, I reflect on a meditative experience where I felt a profound integration of my body and the surrounding space as one continuous field. My body, the most potent center of sensation and awareness, contrasts with the less intense, outer layers of the surrounding space—an “otherness” I sense but don’t experience as vividly. I explore this connection using the metaphor of an egg, with my body as the vibrant yolk and the surrounding space as the softer membrane, both existing due to my belief. This meditation revealed the unity of body, mind, space, and imagination, challenging the concept of duality and offering a moment of deeper self-realization.
I was just meditating, and for the first time, I felt and imagined an integration of my body and my space into one seamless continuum. It was a shift—something I do not directly experience often but have understood deeply and intellectually. The most potent part of this continuum, of course, is my body. It pulses with sensation, alive with awareness. This is where I feel the most real, the most centered, the most “me.” But as my field expands outward, the potency diminishes. What was once the core of my being dissolves into a sensory experience—smelling, hearing, seeing, and simply knowing. Everything beyond the boundary of my physical body suddenly becomes “otherness”.
For example, in the field around my body, the space beyond the boundary of my core is present. I know that space exists, but not with the same intensity as I feel my body. I express this knowing through my senses: I visualize the space, I navigate through it, and I use it to accomplish, achieve, and experience life. But this space, while real in its own way, is less substantial to me than my body, which feels like the source of my existence. Without the belief in that space, without the knowing that it is there, I wouldn’t move. I wouldn’t act. It’s my belief that ties it all together.
I think of it like an egg. There is the vibrant yellow yolk, my core, and then the white membrane around it, which represents the surrounding field. Together, they form one whole—one structure, one field. But they are not the same. The yolk, my body, is where the potency lies, while the membrane, the field around me, is more diffuse, softer, less defined. Still, it all requires belief. Both my body and the space I move through exist because I believe I am here, occupying this space, at this time.
My existential field starts at the core, where sensation is most intense, most potent. Everything beyond it feels less urgent, less real. This outer field—my vision, my thoughts, the sensations I pick up—holds less weight. And beyond that lies yet another layer of my field, where my mind projects its own imagined spaces. Here is where I place my thoughts, my timeline, my reasoning. It’s filled with cause and effect, beliefs, and constructs that aren’t directly experienced but shape the way I navigate through life.
So, it’s not that there’s truly a duality—my inner space and the larger outer space. It’s not a question of being “in here” versus “out there.” It’s all one continuous field, an extension of the same experience. Even the sky, which seems so far away, is simply part of that field. It’s a projection of my mind, not separate from me at all but part of the same continuum I’m always immersed in.
As I meditate on this, I realize that it’s all connected—my body, my mind, the space around me, and the world I imagine and interact with. The potency may shift, but the field remains one. And understanding this, even just for a moment, shifts the way I see myself and my place in this experience I call my awakening.
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