Spirit

I read a post from somebody online, and they were talking about the things that make us happy, the things that make us thrive, and the things that make us human. These things are all the same now as they were throughout history. And it made me think about something I’ve considered for a long time. I’m not exactly sure when the first thought occurred to me about how I see the universe, how I see us as people, our souls, our spirit—whatever you want to call it. Where does that come from?

A long time ago, the best way I could describe it was by visualizing a oneness, not too dissimilar from a ball of dough. The dough doesn’t really have a shape, because it doesn’t need to. But the Spirit inside your chest looks like a white blanket. It's thick about an inch or less. It's folded into three parts. The top right of the chest below clavicle. It has a small fold that is diagonal. The fold crease is bottom right to top left. Another fold larger is below it to the lower left. Then another small fold is bellow it to the lower left. It is much like the fold on top. All three folds have structures in them. They are white light but translucent and have light prisms in them.

It’s not like a ball of dough that you can manipulate in space-time. It’s more of an idea to give you perspective. You can think of the ball of dough as something we came from. Before our lives here, where did we come from? What are we still connected to while we’re here?

Imagine the colander, like a spaghetti strainer, and the ball of dough pressing up against it. On one side of the colander, you have the ball of dough—a force, an action, a thought, a belief. This force presses against the colander, and on the other side, little dough dots pop up. From the perspective of one of those dough dots, you can see all the other little dough dots. They look similar but not the same. They’re relatively the same thing, but they are different, separated by the colander. This is how I view people—similar, yet different.

The colander, in my mind, represents space and time. These are the rules that separate us. Together, we’re all connected to this ball of dough, but in this colander, the life that we live, we’re separated. Yet, we’re still connected to the same thing. And there are rules—laws—not just scientific ones, but, I believe, spiritual ones as well. While we exist here, there are things that separate us. It’s not just gravity or thermodynamics and all the laws that we have here. There’s a force that pushed us here, an action that caused the dough to separate itself into this matrix we exist in today.

With that action, you can think about one of those little dough dots as an iteration of something bigger, beneath it, but also the beginning of another dough—another ball. It doesn’t just end there when we pass away. Our dough doesn’t stop existing. We don’t cease to exist after we leave here. The matrix may leave, but your continuation, your fractal iteration, may continue on. Potentially, maybe even forming your own dough eventually.

And I guess, why would a dough dot want to become something different than what it once was? If we were all part of this thing together, just different versions of ourselves here, in different little dough iterations that are different but the same, right? We’re still connected. And when we leave, we represent that fractal pattern. That’s a good way to think about it—like a fractal pattern with a direction. It’s similar to listening to a near-death experience. When you pass away, there’s that light at the end of the tunnel, and you’re supposed to walk toward it.

In my view, that’s the discontinuation of the colander separating, and you’re able to go toward where you’re supposed to go. I think that’s part of the continuation of something much bigger—something that mirrors what we once came from: the light, the love. It’s always there. And that light at the end of the tunnel represents the realization that it was there all along. You just couldn’t see it. When you pass away, you’re finally able to see that light.

It makes you wonder. There’s a purpose to this life, this place we’re in. There’s a reason for the colander, and a reason why we’re all here. It’s not that this life is meaningless or that we’re just going to die and disappear. You could be a billionaire, a trillionaire, but when you pass away, everything stays—every single penny, everything stays. But what doesn’t stay is you. You don’t stay here. And so, there’s purpose in this place.

When I read things online from people offering insight and clarity about what makes us human and what makes us thrive, it resonates with me. Those things haven’t changed in thousands of years. The sense of love and community are still the same things that made us thrive 2,000 years ago, 1,000 years ago. The difference is the technology, how we implement it into our lives. Our connection and sense of love have made us thrive as humans. Where we choose to put our technological tools determines whether they’ll help us thrive—or not.

Love is where we come from, and hopefully, it is where we are going. While we’re here, love should be the thing that shapes us, the thing that we keep pushing after and for. It should be love-based, because that’s where we came from, and that’s where we’re going. For me, my career field is something very purposeful. For many people, it’s driven by love, and it shapes us while we’re here, reflecting that into the future. It’s not just about work—it’s about family, friends, and how we spend our time. It’s about what we love and how we go after it. Even though our jobs may be different than those 2,000 years ago, we should always pursue things we love, because love shapes us while we’re here to help us get to where we need to go.

The things that have helped us thrive haven’t changed. When I read that, it really struck me how significant it is. We often look back and think how different people were 1,000 years ago, or even 200 years ago. People in the United States 200 years ago were grateful for what they had, but we still see them as so different. But if you think about it, every single one of us is a dough dot on the other side of the colander. Each dough dot thought of the others as separate, as different.

The only thing that separates us is the space and time that we’re in now. The same dough dots that were here 2,000 years ago are just separated by time and space. Our clothes look different, our houses look different, our skin looks different, our bodies look different. Those things are different iterations in the matrix we exist in, but we are all part of the same thing. It’s the self-continuation that drives us—this need to keep pushing forward.