think back to a time when in an unguarded moment, you heard music that stole your heart. may only have been a few bars, a few notes. usually not on a good stereo, but on the street. music that cut right through you. that is your song - and if you are lucky there may be more than one.
The first one that popped into my mind was a song at the end of a movie called "La Femme Nikita" It's about a women who was a drug addict. She was caught by some organisation that trained her to be an assassin. To her mother it was declared that she died and actually they would have killed her if she had refused to cooperate. In the end she gets away from this system and in the final cadre she walks away into the mist while this song is playing.
I haven't been able to find out who's the artist.
let’s begin by stating that Death by its definitive and palpably obvious position in the array of experiences presented to us, is not subject to secure explanations. It is Mystery itself.
So, to make a long story short, I'm delighted Micahel is sharing his wisdom on it. Looking forward to all of it, with great relish.
Some choose to use this, to dismiss any attempt to understand or prepare for it. I am not one of those. You are welcome to be one of those without any criticism from me.
I prefer to approach death with a map. I am not wedded to the map, but I prefer to have some preparation rather than none, while always ready to either rearrange the map, or toss it completely. This map is built from both my own personal experiences plus the thoughts and experiences of others revealed to me along my way.
Then we are released into a world of pure spirit, retaining only the most absolute refined and distilled essential ‘flavour’ of our previous life. how long we remain there depends, but for most, a very short time, before the cycle begins again, and our ‘flavour’ attracts to it particles of unaware and aware matter. like a magnet, we pull to us the items we have stored a sympathetic energy for, in our ‘flavour’ - what DJ called our ‘that which remains’.
part of this pulling to us is our purpose in the next cycle, our friends, our talents, our ‘beam’. for an aware person, it becomes a task in this life, to begin this process of seeding our next cycle - right here. We are already doing it unconsciously, so it is not too big a jump to do it consciously.
During such a person’s life, they build the depth and volume of their aura, such that when they die, it forms a home in space, astral space. Think of it like a great cloud of warmth and love, that you can lie in, and go to sleep. That is what we all do in some way - we die and go to sleep in the vast astral glow of a being, till we rise up again, and strike forth out into the wilderness again.
Manu is also mentioned here: http://www.anandgholap.net/Man_Whence_How_And_Whither-CWL.htm
I want to describe some different deaths - the previous was the backdrop, structure of our condition.
The death of a warrior:
A warrior lives by the Code. this may look like a code of Iron, but it’s not. It is the code of Poetry.
A warrior lives the life of a poem. She rejects the mundane, rejects the rational, rejects the secure. She longs to stand in the wind atop the mountain.
A warrior lives in Song. Dies in Song.
you who read this here have within you the warrior. when a warrior dies, a song is waiting. This song cuts like a razor blade into the our heart, and steals our soul. we are given to it like a mouse to a hawk.
on passing the gates on death, we each have our song, and it waits like a hawk, like a taxi, like a lover, like a flower.
away on its melody we are carried into the consummation of heroes.
what song is waiting for you? let me tell you.
think back to a time when in an unguarded moment, you heard music that stole your heart. may only have been a few bars, a few notes. usually not on a good stereo, but on the street. music that cut right through you. that is your song - and if you are lucky there may be more than one.
if you can’t recall, then work on it - every warrior has a song.
why? because music comes from our deepest being.
I will tell you of two of mine:
once when I was standing in line at the passport counter in Indonesia, Sumatra - a mouldy crappy place - I heard from an old cassette player the sound of guitar. I asked who it was - Mick Bloomfield! they said. Well I’ve never heard it since, and I know his music. But whatever, it carried me away.
next was the main one - across the lake, after my encounter with death, one morning I heard the most beautiful singing. so light, so sad, so free.