Being me in we

Watch a feather-light fabric, spun silk through which threads of colour have been drawn with warp and weft and careful stitches. So that the cloth, a blowing undulation in the wind, tells the story of the many lives that once were. Of some lives that are now, threads close together for several lengths, colours crossing. Something, even stronger than the wind, lifts the fabric very slowly upwards towards the sky.

Being me in we

Something even stronger than the wind lifts the fabric very slowly upwards towards the sky. While the wind continues to move the cloth, the fabric, the colours, in waves and undulations. A supporting reality that connects us and our lives and makes us dance together. A reality we do not know. Quirkiness creates stiff strips in the fabric where the graceful movement of and with life can no longer express itself fluidly. Wilfulness of many colours squeezes a piece of the carrier cloth and the lines of life running through it into a wad. A solid volume almost, a crystal. Dull and dark because no light is reflected.

Which one is my life thread? What is my colour? Does this coloured thread of mine run far, without breaks or knots, through the fabric? Do I create a sharp contrast with other threads right next to mine, or a blending colour, a shot silk that beads beautifully in the sunlight? Where do I find myself in my life thread, twined strands starting from the original idea of me? Does the thread flow with time? What brings our life threads together to make them move apart again with some distance in between? Who is the weaver of this human fabric? Who is the wind that carries it, floating?

What is the point of human dialogue? What is the purpose of relationship building? Why am I part of a group? Does therein lie more to discover than in my family of origin of which it is irrevocably the image?

The fleece-thin fabric of being galvanises into the principle of a crystallised body. Freedom is sacrificed for the colour of experience and thus consciousness. As if there are all glass jars on the table of reality, filled with a colourless liquid. The sinking membrane of being gradually discolours the litmus in the solution, gives the whole glass its own colour. Zooming out, the thread of time comes into view with right there a section in azure or purple or grass green.

I have a vague idea of my own spectrum of colours, the light reflections emanating from me. I perceive your colours through mine. Sum of waves and frequencies. Sometimes adding, sometimes subtracting. In each case, the result is very different from my own. I experience I, I see you. I can imagine we and it is easier if I experience a connection between the two of us, a cross-linking in the

fabric or the confidence that parallel threads will remain close together for some time to come. Or a related colour spectrum.

Can I get out of my glass? Can I completely abstract myself from my colour spectrum and see the naked reality: the fabric, the threads, the colours, the movement, the wind? Is that then unity consciousness?

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Date: November 4, 2022
Author: Eric Op 't Eynde (Belgium)
Photo: Brandon Morgan on Unsplash CCO

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