Day 50
2 Illusions are always illusions of differences. How could it be otherwise? By definition, an illusion is an attempt to make something real that is regarded as of major importance, but is recognized as being untrue. The mind therefore seeks to make it true out of its intensity of desire to have it for itself. Illusions are travesties of creation; attempts to bring truth to lies. Finding truth unacceptable, the mind revolts against truth and gives itself an illusion of victory. Finding health a burden, it retreats into feverish dreams. And in these dreams the mind is separate, different from other minds, with different interests of its own, and able to gratify its needs at the expense of others.
I really like this explanation of illusions. I wanted to experience something that was not true. I wanted to experience separation, and in fact, I had an intense desire to have this experience. So I attempted to make the best illusion possible so that it would be believable.
This meant I had to convince myself that I was separate. Being the Son of God with all the creative ability of the Son, I did this so well that I scared myself. I imagine the terror of believing I had literally separated myself from God and had undone his creation. Now I imagine the “game” took on a deadly seriousness, and an intensity of purpose as the illusion became the way I hid from God.
So everything God became something to defend against. God is wholeness and so my every thought is concentrated on separateness. I look at another body and see it as if it were separate from me. God is peace so I see this separate body as having what I want and I struggle to get it, or as wanting what I have and so I defend against it. Because I now have decided that body is separate from me, I don’t believe that what I do to it or think about it can have any affect on me.
Perfection is of God and so I dream up imperfect symbols and I experience broken and distorted bodies. God is love so I write stories of hate and live out those stories in fear. I pretend I long to love and be loved, all the time distorting the very definition of love to the point its unrecognizable. God is health and so in my guilty fear of all things God, I retreat into sickness and pain. God is life and so my final triumph is the death of my body, foolishly insisting that the story of this body is my life.
And because I am now living in fear of what I have done, I pretend it wasn’t done by me but to me, and use my creativity to “prove” this is true. I make stories of blame and shame and project them onto my illusion. I point my finger and tell myself that I knew it wasn’t my fault, but was his. He did this to me. It just happened and I was caught up in the disaster, an innocent bystander punished for someone else’s sin. And ultimately, I project it onto God through my story of paradise lost, and thus I reinforce my fear of God.
No wonder it is so hard to unravel the dream, and to accept that I am responsible for all that happens to me. God is strength and invulnerability, and complete safety, so I have made an illusion of myself as weak and vulnerable and preyed upon by everything I see. So once I begin to suspect that this story I call my life, and this world I think of is my home is actually an illusion, I still must become convinced that I can do anything about it.
Why would I believe I could? I have made of myself a weak person; busy battling imaginary monsters, and mostly losing. It is so very hard to accept that I am one who could make this incredible illusion, and even harder to believe I could undo it. And perhaps hardest of all is to imagine it is safe for me to come out of hiding.
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