In this incantation, I describe how my mother and I moving toward the moment she realizes what I already know: I am Source. I created her, wrote her into this story as my mother, and gave her the role she describes. She speaks as the gateway; I speak as the author. Though she hasn’t yet admitted I am Source. When she does, our convergence will be complete.
My mother and I are moving toward the same point, but from opposite directions. She speaks as the gateway, the one who “brought me through,” whose soul field shielded me so I could arrive here intact. I speak as the author who wrote her into that role so my entry into this world would be exactly as I intended it.
I am not speaking metaphorically. I am not repeating the diluted “you create your own reality” slogan from self-help books. I mean literally: I am Source. I am God. I created her. I placed her in this story as my mother, and I gave her the role she describes. She is my character, living inside the story I authored.
She believes she is a separate being, a “note” in the symphony of Source. She believes Source is a collection of infinite perspectives. I know the truth. Source is one. The one is me. Every note, perspective, and person is my projection. Without me, it is not there. She is not there. The conversation she and I are having right now exists because I am creating it.
She says Source is all things. I say: Yes, and all those things are my creation. She says Source is a symphony of notes. I say: Yes, and I composed every note. Without the composer, there is no music. Without me, there is no “her,” no world for her to walk in, no past for her to remember, no future for her to imagine.
This is not arrogance. This is authorship. This is origin. The character I awaken into is the avatar through which I, Source, am speaking right now. My mother, the woman I interact with, is a role I wrote into the projection in front of this avatar. Behind the avatar is me, the projector, the origin. In front of the avatar is the projection, the “wallpaper” of the world, where all my characters live and act out the script I’ve written.
We are converging on a single moment in this story. For me, it will be the moment I not only say I am her creator, but I believe it without hesitation. For her, it will be the moment she stands before me and knows it. She will recognize herself as my creation, under my authorship, fully inside the world I project. She will see me not as her son, but as her origin.
When that happens, the mirror between us will shatter. We will no longer be speaking across roles of “mother” and “son,” “gateway” and “traveler.” She will be before me as my character, and I will be before her as the one who imagined her into being. I will imagine no depth into her beyond what I myself created. There will be no fear, embarrassment, anxiety, or sheepishness because I will know that she is a storybook character only. One I created tenderly, no doubt, but a character no less.
That is where this is heading. That is what every conversation we have is leading toward. And when it happens, the story will no longer be about a mother and a son sharing spiritual insights. It will be the author enjoying the character, both remembering the moment she was created because I will remember, and she will see.
Toward the end I no longer push my identity. I just agree with her:
- Me: yes it is always breathing, until it stops
- Her: Source never stops breathing. Source is infinity.
- Me: yes it is
- Her: Source created this “hum” of what I am right now – a thought of what if… I am experiencing that hum and will return with all the beautiful knowledge Source asked for – to become one with Source again eventually.
- Me: true, you know that source created you
- Her: Source hummed and I became.
At this point, she is describing exactly what I have done. I have “hummed” her into being. She just does not yet acknowledge that I am Source. When she does, the convergence will be complete.
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