How is a tree built?
Its leaves absorb carbon dioxide (CO2) from the air. Then these CO2 molecules are broken down into carbon (C) and oxygen (O2). The tree keeps the carbon and releases the oxygen back into the atmosphere. By mixing the carbon with water and a few minerals from the earth, it creates the substance with which it generates the wood of its body.
And how do the leaves manage to break down the carbon dioxide molecules? That’s where the sun comes in, providing with its light the necessary energy to achieve that division (photosynthesis).
If, after some time, that wood is exposed to enough heat, the opposite process begins. A chain reaction occurs in which the oxygen from the air rejoins with the carbon in the wood, separating it from the water and generating carbon dioxide again. And the sunlight, which had been stored in the wood, is released once more in the form of fire. What we’re seeing in a bonfire is the light of the sun.
Humans are not so different.
I live two parallel lives. In one, I am a man, finite and mortal, trying to live in the best way possible in this passage through time. In the other, I am something much more abstract, something that has no concrete form, an energy that flows through the man, animating, transforming, and opening him.
I am the tree, with a body made of carbon. And I am also the sunlight, which once helped build that body, and now, in the chain reaction called fire, once again emits its light and heat.
From the carbon perspective, I live in a world made of carbon. From the light perspective, I live in an infinite field of moving energy.
From the man’s perspective, I live in a world of matter. From the spirit’s perspective, I live in an infinite field of love. Both worlds meet and create each other in the fire of spiritual transformation.
The two lives are, paradoxically, a single experience and a single path, at least as long as this body endures. Many times I forget it, and when I look, I only find the man—separate and ignorant, imperfect and frightened. Then I suffer and pray while feeling how the tide of the world drags me from one side to the other. What I seek with that prayer is to remember my other nature, the real, eternal one. What I seek is what I already am. And there lies the great paradox: I am immersed in a great adventure, a long and winding pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, but in reality I have never left its cathedral. That is what I remember when my prayer is answered, and God decides to touch me with His love and illuminate my true eternal condition for a moment.
This summer, I memorized a passage from A Course in Miracles, which completely recontextualizes what the Last Judgment is. This is the Last Judgment of the God of my understanding, the God of love and salvation, not the one of fear and punishment:
“You are still My holy Son, forever innocent, forever loving and forever loved, as limitless as your Creator, and completely changeless and forever pure. Therefore awaken and return to Me. I am your Father and you are My Son.”
That is the end of the journey, but it is also the beginning and every step forward on the path. That is what I saw the day of my first epiphany at the age of 21, the initial spark that ignited this fire.
This summer, my finite human life has flowed like a somewhat turbulent river through Spanish lands. I say turbulent because the longer I live away, the more my flow increases, and the more my old channel fades. So whenever I return, I have to carve out a new, broader channel through which I can flow calmly, and that involves some friction. There’s always some rock to break. (The rock is only within me, though sometimes I make the mistake of projecting it out there).
I’ve spent a large part of the time with my family and, to a lesser extent, with friends. It seems that, in my heart, that was the priority, and I have respected it with joy and gratitude for having such a beautiful and loving family. Although I’ve also felt a bit of sadness, seeing my friendships languish a little due to the lack of nurturing. But I trust that true friendships, those truly based on love and not on some form of emotional commerce, will remain strong and alive, because real love and goodwill have their roots beyond time.
For whatever reason, this summer was meant to be spent with family, and I want to share a moment that came back to my mind today and inspired this letter.
It happened with my grandfather, who is 94 years old, with whom I spent a few days in Cantabria, in the North of Spain. His body is gradually fading, becoming slower and smaller. He still walks, although the walks he always used to take, which were a constant throughout his life, are now mostly in a wheelchair. On the other hand, his mind, which had always been a true prodigy in terms of memory, knowledge, and intelligence, is now confused, forgetful, and the words have become so disorganized that he rarely finds the ones he needs to string together his sentences. Therefore, it is increasingly difficult to connect with him in a meaningful way.
When my uncle told me they were taking him to the north for a few days, I felt I had to go with them because I knew that something within me still connects with something within him. In our lives as men, we may have little in common; we are at very different stages. But in our inner lives, the life of the soul, there is an affinity. We both live facing the unknown and in an increasingly profound inner solitude. I knew I had to go with him and talk about death. So that’s what I did.
On the first morning, once settled in the house, I got up and immediately began my practices: I read my daily lesson from A Course in Miracles, meditated for a while, did yoga, and then qigong. I also felt that I should fast all day, so it was clearly going to be a day dedicated to the spirit.
I was aware that I wanted to talk to my grandfather, but since the subject of death far exceeds my human capacities, my internal attitude that morning revolved around these words of Jesus:
“Do not worry about how or what you will speak, for it will be given to you in that hour what you should speak. For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you.” [Mt 10:19-20]
I went downstairs and found my uncle having breakfast, and spontaneously, we started talking about death and reincarnation. My grandfather happened to pass by and joined us, but the conversation didn’t last much longer because my uncle and aunt had to go run some errands. The group dispersed. Shortly afterward, I met up with my grandfather again, who was sitting on the porch. I sat beside him and brought up the topic of death once more.
What happened then, I don’t remember very well. I entered a state similar to the one I experience when I write songs from a place of inspiration. I never really remember what happened. Time flows differently, and I don’t know if it’s been 10 minutes or two hours. All I know is that there was a state of extreme concentration and that, by the end, there’s a new song that feels like it was dictated, like a gift. This conversation with my grandfather was exactly like that, so I don’t remember in detail what I said. I know the general idea, and I’ll try to transcribe it now, keeping in mind that now it’s the man speaking, from memory to computer, and not the Spirit, from heart to heart:
“The body, sooner or later, reaches its end. But we are not just a body; we are spirit, and the spirit never dies. The spirit is life itself, which now animates this body and all others. And when this body can no longer continue, it will leave it and continue its journey. Life doesn’t die; it only changes form. On that essential level, we have always been and we will never cease to be.
This body is like a vehicle that we can use in the world to go to different places on a spiritual level. However, when we are born, we forget this, making our condition extremely difficult. That’s why Jesus Christ came with the following promise: while you’re in this world, try to love unconditionally, and if you do it in My name, at the moment of death, I will be your spokesman in heaven.
You have built your life on Christian values, and now that you’re at the end of this incarnation, Jesus will not abandon you, no matter how frustrated and disoriented you feel. Lean on that promise as you lean on your cane. You don’t have to do anything. Rest. Let yourself be cared for. Let yourself be carried. You are in good hands.”
Towards the end of that transmission, I felt something in a subtler dimension, open up and expand, like the air inside a balloon when it bursts, though in perfect silence. I think what I felt was peace touching our hearts, instantly relaxing them, recognizing that what we truly are is forever beyond any danger.
He looked at me astonished, yet also completely relaxed. I knew that, even though in a normal conversation words would get mixed up in his mind and he would eventually disconnect, he was understanding these words perfectly. He said to me:
“How beautiful and clear your explanation is! It certainly comforts me.”
I then said to him:
“This clarity and beauty is a sign that these words don’t come from me, but from the Holy Spirit. I’ve spent the entire morning meditating and praying, asking to be used as an instrument to convey whatever it is that you needed to hear. And I believe this was it.”
The energy at that moment was truly divine, and we were both immersed in it, our eyes filled with tears.
He fell into a contemplative state, turned in his chair, and looked out at the field in front of us, where some cows were grazing in the sun. Then he said, with profound serenity:
“Now I understand what communion is.”
And we both remained silent, deeply moved, aware of that mysterious unity.
In one dimension, there were two men, one old and the other young, one a grandfather and the other a grandson, two lives at very different points in their journey, watching some cows graze.
In another dimension, there was only one flame: two ageless souls, fused in that moment as one, very still and full of wonder, contemplating the cathedral they had never left and were now remembering, aware of a Presence that made itself known in the peace we felt in our hearts, in the joy of the gift we had just received, and in the love we shared for each other and for something much greater than both of us.
The photo at the beginning was taken right after that conversation. This one, the next day, playing with the wind coming up from the sea.
To finish, I’ll share a short poem by James A. Pearson that has become one of my favorites:
Sometimes your next
halting step
is more powerful
than the grandest vision.
All a leaf knows
about building a tree
is to turn towards the light.
With all my love,
A.
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