Calling Home

Improbable Fast-Track For The Divine Mind

I find that all my thoughts circle round God like the planets round the sun, and are as irresistibly attracted by [God]. I would feel it the most heinous sin were I to offer any resistance to this compelling force.
—Carl Jung, letter, March 1955

Inside, there’s a tiny sun that’s very big indeed. If I put my attention on it – at the centre of my chest – it grows and burns brighter, and there’s a strange, almost metallic sensation, like a little tin valve opening. As it opens, ‘feelings’ flood my nervous system and my mind: peace, love – words that have lost all meaning or are simply too big for meaning.

It doesn’t matter what it is, this sun, this valve, these ‘feelings’. I mean it doesn’t matter whether I call it one thing or another, because it seems to me that it’s a part of something much greater and unfathomable anyway. And yet it matters. Somehow it would feel a most heinous sin were I not to write about it or try to write about it. ‘Sin’ isn’t a helpful word in 2025 (you probably know that its original meaning is more akin to ‘missing the mark’), but I like the truth that in trying to write about/towards this, I can only miss the mark. The whole territory is bigger than I am: I am is bigger than the whole territory.

In times like these, it feels imperative to tell the truth, but when it comes to the divine, it’s actually not possible, at least not in the way we habitually understand ‘truth’. I like that. I like that our everyday human lives deserve and require factual truth, and that our divine lives operate beyond the mind of factual truth. Sometimes I think about this era of lying as an improbable fast-track for the divine mind; I think of it as a destroyer of the mental mind’s bearings and a generous host for the expansion of the divine mind – should we choose it. If we have to live through an era of profound uncertainty and certain deception, why not put it to good use? Am I entirely at ease with not knowing? Can I really rest in uncertainty? No, but I’m trying to let go and I’m letting go of trying. It takes time (and is instantaneous).