The Buddha’s teachings offer the most satisfactory explanation of where man came from and where he is going. When we die, the mind, with all the tendencies, preferences, abilities and characteristics that have been developed and conditioned in this life, re-establishes itself in a new being. Thus the new individual grows and develops a personality conditioned both by the mental characteristics that have been carried over from the previous life and by the new environment. The personality will change and be modified by conscious effort and conditioning factors like education, parental influence and society but once again at death, it will re-establish itself as life in a new being. This process of dying and being reborn will continue until the conditions that cause it, the mental factors of craving and ignorance, cease. When they do, instead of being reborn, the mind attains a state called Nirvana.
How does the mind go from one body to another?
When a person is dying, he begins to lose conscious control of his mental processes. There comes a time when his actions and habits locked away in his memories are released. In many instances, there arises in his mind a mental image. This image is totally involuntarily and is produced by his karma or past actions. Thus depending upon the nature of the particular karma that produces this image, the person may see dark shadowy figures, frightening images, or he may see his relatives or perhaps visions of scenic beauty. Quite often, he will cry out at these visions or remark about them to his visitors. Even though the physical body may be weak these thought units are very strong as death approaches. When the body finally breaks down at the point of death these energies are released as mental energy. As energy cannot be destroyed they have to re-establish themselves in a new body thus causing the phenomenon of rebirth.
Think of it being like radio waves which are not made up of words and music but energy at different frequencies, which are transmitted, travel instantaneously through space, are picked up by the receiver from where the radio produces them as words and music. It is the same with the mind. At death, mental energy travels through space, is picked up by the fertilized egg of the future mother, is reborn as a new being and manifests as a new personality.
Thus it is important that a dying person is comforted and reminded of his good deeds. He should not be made confused and visitors should not overtly grieve in his presence. Neither should unfamiliar ideas like a new religion be introduced to him. The Buddha advises that when one is fearful, he should recall minding the Buddha, the Dhamma and the Sangha.
Is one always reborn as a human being?
No, there are several realms into which one can be reborn. Some people are reborn in heavenly planes, some are reborn in hell planes, and some may be reborn as ghosts and as animals. Heaven is not a place but a state of existence where one has a subtle body and where the mind experiences mainly pleasure. Some religions strive very hard to be reborn in a heavenly existence mistakenly believing it to be a permanent state. But it is not. Like all conditioned states, heaven is impermanent and when one’s life span there is finished, one could well be reborn again as a human. Hell, likewise, is not a place but a state of existence where one has a subtle body and where the mind experiences mainly anxiety and distress. Being a ghost, again, is a state of existence where the body is subtle and where the mind is continually plagued by longing and dissatisfaction. So heavenly beings experience mainly pleasure, hell beings and ghosts experience mainly pain and human beings experience usually a mixture of both. So the main difference between the human realm and other realms is the body type and the quality of experience.
“Those who imagine evil where there is none, and do not see evil where it is — upholding false views, they go to states of woe. Those who discern the wrong as wrong and the right as right — upholding right views, they go to realms of bliss.
~ Dhammapada 318, 319”
What decides where we will be reborn?
The most important factor, but not the only one, influencing where we will be reborn and what sort of life we shall have, is karma. The word karma means ‘action’ and refers to our intentional mental actions. In other words, what we are is determined very much by how we have thought and acted in the past. Likewise, how we think and act now will influence how we will be in the future. Just as radio waves will be picked up by a radio tuned to its particular frequency, the mental energies released at the time of death will naturally be re-established in a new material body that most suits it. Thus, the gentle, loving type of person shall be reborn in a heavenly realm or as a human being in a comfortable environment. The anxious, worried or extremely cruel type of person is reborn in a hell realm, or as an animal, or as a human being born in extremely difficult environment.
Not only is there scientific evidence to support the phenomena of rebirth, it is the only after-life theory that has any evidence to support it. During the last 30 years parapsychologists have been studying reports that some people have vivid memories of their former lives. Professor Ian Stevenson of the University of Virginia’s Department of Psychology has described dozens of cases of this type in his books. He is an accredited scientist whose 25 year study of people who remember former lives is very strong evidence for rebirth
Source: www.e-buddhism.com
Read more at http://www.theinfopost.org/2016/08/what-happens-when-we-die-heres-what
2016-08-11
The Day Dostoyevsky Discovered the Meaning of Life in a Dream.
“And it is so simple… You will instantly find how to live.”
One November night in the 1870s, legendary Russian writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky (November 11, 1821–February 9, 1881) discovered the meaning of life in a dream — or, at least, the protagonist in his final short story did. The piece, which first appeared in the altogether revelatory A Writer’s Diary (public library) under the title “The Dream of a Queer Fellow” and was later published separately as The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, explores themes similar to those in Dostoyevsky’s 1864 novel Notes from the Underground, considered the first true existential novel. True to Stephen King’s assertion that “good fiction is the truth inside the lie,” the story sheds light on Dostoyevsky’s personal spiritual and philosophical bents with extraordinary clarity — perhaps more so than any of his other published works. The contemplation at its heart falls somewhere between Tolstoy’s tussle with the meaning of life and Philip K. Dick’s hallucinatory exegesis.
The story begins with the narrator wandering the streets of St. Petersburg on “a gloomy night, the gloomiest night you can conceive,” dwelling on how others have ridiculed him all his life and slipping into nihilism with the “terrible anguish” of believing that nothing matters. He peers into the glum sky, gazes at a lone little star, and contemplates suicide; two months earlier, despite his destitution, he had bought an “excellent revolver” with the same intention, but the gun had remained in his drawer since. Suddenly, as he is staring at the star, a little girl of about eight, wearing ragged clothes and clearly in distress, grabs him by the arm and inarticulately begs his help. But the protagonist, disenchanted with life, shoos her away and returns to the squalid room he shares with a drunken old captain, furnished with “a sofa covered in American cloth, a table with some books, two chairs and an easy-chair, old, incredibly old, but still an easy-chair.”
As he sinks into the easy-chair to think about ending his life, he finds himself haunted by the image of the little girl, leading him to question his nihilistic disposition. Dostoyevsky writes:
I knew for certain that I would shoot myself that night, but how long I would sit by the table — that I did not know. I should certainly have shot myself, but for that little girl.
You see: though it was all the same to me, I felt pain, for instance. If any one were to strike me, I should feel pain. Exactly the same in the moral sense: if anything very pitiful happened, I would feel pity, just as I did before everything in life became all the same to me. I had felt pity just before: surely, I would have helped a child without fail. Why did I not help the little girl, then? It was because of an idea that came into my mind then. When she was pulling at me and calling to me, suddenly a question arose before me, which I could not answer. The question was an idle one; but it made me angry. I was angry because of my conclusion, that if I had already made up my mind that I would put an end to myself to-night, then now more than ever before everything in the world should be all the same to me. Why was it that I felt it was not all the same to me, and pitied the little girl? I remember I pitied her very much: so much that I felt a pain that was even strange and incredible in my situation…
It seemed clear that if I was a man and not a cipher yet, and until I was changed into a cipher, then I was alive and therefore could suffer, be angry and feel shame for my actions. Very well. But if I were to kill myself, for instance, in two hours from now, what is the girl to me, and what have I to do with shame or with anything on earth? I am going to be a cipher, an absolute zero. Could my consciousness that I would soon absolutely cease to exist, and that therefore nothing would exist, have not the least influence on my feeling of pity for the girl or on my sense of shame for the vileness I had committed?
From the moral, he veers into the existential:
It became clear to me that life and the world, as it were, depended upon me. I might even say that the world had existed for me alone. I should shoot myself, and then there would be no world at all, for me at least. Not to mention that perhaps there will really be nothing for any one after me, and the whole world, as soon as my consciousness is extinguished, will also be extinguished like a phantom, as part of my consciousness only, and be utterly abolished, since perhaps all this world and all these men are myself alone.
Beholding “these new, thronging questions,” he plunges into a contemplation of what free will really means. In a passage that calls to mind John Cage’s famous aphorism on the meaning of life — “No why. Just here.” — and George Lucas’s assertion that “life is beyond reason,” Dostoyevsky suggests through his protagonist that what gives meaning to life is life itself:
One strange consideration suddenly presented itself to me. If I had previously lived on the moon or in Mars, and I had there been dishonored and disgraced so utterly that one can only imagine it sometimes in a dream or a nightmare, and if I afterwards found myself on earth and still preserved a consciousness of what I had done on the other planet, and if I knew besides that I would never by any chance return, then, if I were to look at the moon from the earth — would it be all the same to me or not? Would I feel any shame for my action or not? The questions were idle and useless, for the revolver was already lying before me, and I knew with all my being that this thing would happen for certain: but the questions excited me to rage. I could not die now, without having solved this first. In a word, that little girl saved me, for my questions made me postpone pulling the trigger.
Just as he ponders this, the protagonist slips into sleep in the easy-chair, but it’s a sleep that has the quality of wakeful dreaming. In one of many wonderful semi-asides, Dostoyevsky peers at the eternal question of why we have dreams:
Dreams are extraordinarily strange. One thing appears with terrifying clarity, with the details finely set like jewels, while you leap over another, as though you did not notice it at all — space and time, for instance. It seems that dreams are the work not of mind but of desire, not of the head but of the heart… In a dream things quite incomprehensible come to pass. For instance, my brother died five years ago. Sometimes I see him in a dream: he takes part in my affairs, and we are very excited, while I, all the time my dream goes on, know and remember perfectly that my brother is dead and buried. Why am I not surprised that he, though dead, is still near me and busied about me? Why does my mind allow all that?
In this strange state, the protagonist dreams that he takes his revolver and points it at his heart — not his head, where he had originally intended to shoot himself. After waiting a second or two, his dream-self pulls the trigger quickly. Then something remarkable happens:
I felt no pain, but it seemed to me that with the report, everything in me was convulsed, and everything suddenly extinguished. It was terribly black all about me. I became as though blind and numb, and I lay on my back on something hard. I could see nothing, neither could I make any sound. People were walking and making a noise about me: the captain’s bass voice, the landlady’s screams… Suddenly there was a break. I am being carried in a closed coffin. I feel the coffin swinging and I think about that, and suddenly for the first time the idea strikes me that I am dead, quite dead. I know it and do not doubt it; I cannot see nor move, yet at the same time I feel and think. But I am soon reconciled to that, and as usual in a dream I accept the reality without a question.
Now I am being buried in the earth. Every one leaves me and I am alone, quite alone. I do not stir… I lay there and — strange to say — I expected nothing, accepting without question that a dead man has nothing to expect. But it was damp. I do not know how long passed — an hour, a few days, or many days. Suddenly, on my left eye which was closed, a drop of water fell, which had leaked through the top of the grave. In a minute fell another, then a third, and so on, every minute. Suddenly, deep indignation kindled in my heart and suddenly in my heart I felt physical pain. ‘It’s my wound,’ I thought. ‘It’s where I shot myself. The bullet is there.’ And all the while the water dripped straight on to my closed eye. Suddenly, I cried out, not with a voice, for I was motionless, but with all my being, to the arbiter of all that was being done to me.
“Whosoever thou art, if thou art, and if there exists a purpose more intelligent than the things which are now taking place, let it be present here also. But if thou dost take vengeance upon me for my foolish suicide, then know, by the indecency and absurdity of further existence, that no torture whatever that may befall me, can ever be compared to the contempt which I will silently feel, even through millions of years of martyrdom.”
I cried out and was silent. Deep silence lasted a whole minute. One more drop even fell. But I knew and believed, infinitely and steadfastly, that in a moment everything would infallibly change. Suddenly, my grave opened. I do not know whether it had been uncovered and opened, but I was taken by some dark being unknown to me, and we found ourselves in space. Suddenly, I saw. It was deep night; never, never had such darkness been! We were borne through space and were already far from the earth. I asked nothing of him who led me. I was proud and waited. I assured myself that I was not afraid, and my heart melted with rapture at the thought that I was not afraid. I do not remember how long we rushed through space, and I cannot imagine it. It happened as always in a dream when you leap over space and time and the laws of life and mind, and you stop only there where your heart delights.
The Day Dostoyevsky Discovered the Meaning of Life in a Dream
The 1845 depiction of a galaxy that inspired Van Gogh’s ‘The Starry Night,’ from Michael Benson’s Cosmigraphics: Picturing Space Through Time
Through the thick darkness, he sees a star — the same little star he had seen before shooing the girl away. As the dream continues, the protagonist describes a sort of transcendence akin to what is experienced during psychedelic drug trips or in deep meditation states:
Suddenly a familiar yet most overwhelming emotion shook me through. I saw our sun. I knew that it could not be our sun, which had begotten our earth, and that we were an infinite distance away, but somehow all through me I recognized that it was exactly the same sun as ours, its copy and double. A sweet and moving delight echoed rapturously through my soul. The dear power of light, of that same light which had given me birth, touched my heart and revived it, and I felt life, the old life, for the first time since my death.
He finds himself in another world, Earthlike in every respect, except “everything seemed to be bright with holiday, with a great and sacred triumph, finally achieved” — a world populated by “children of the sun,” happy people whose eyes “shone with a bright radiance” and whose faces “gleamed with wisdom, and with a certain consciousness, consummated in tranquility.” The protagonist exclaims:
Oh, instantly, at the first glimpse of their faces I understood everything, everything!
Conceding that “it was only a dream,” he nonetheless asserts that “the sensation of the love of those beautiful and innocent people” was very much real and something he carried into wakeful life on Earth. Awaking in his easy-chair at dawn, he exclaims anew with rekindled gratitude for life:
Oh, now — life, life! I lifted my hands and called upon the eternal truth, not called, but wept. Rapture, ineffable rapture exalted all my being. Yes, to live…
Dostoyevsky concludes with his protagonist’s reflection on the shared essence of life, our common conquest of happiness and kindness:
All are tending to one and the same goal, at least all aspire to the same goal, from the wise man to the lowest murderer, but only by different ways. It is an old truth, but there is this new in it: I cannot go far astray. I saw the truth. I saw and know that men could be beautiful and happy, without losing the capacity to live upon the earth. I will not, I cannot believe that evil is the normal condition of men… I saw the truth, I did not invent it with my mind. I saw, saw, and her living image filled my soul for ever. I saw her in such consummate perfection that I cannot possibly believe that she was not among men. How can I then go astray? … The living image of what I saw will be with me always, and will correct and guide me always. Oh, I am strong and fresh, I can go on, go on, even for a thousand years.
[…]
And it is so simple… The one thing is — love thy neighbor as thyself — that is the one thing. That is all, nothing else is needed. You will instantly find how to live.
A century later, Jack Kerouac would echo this in his own magnificent meditation on kindness and the “Golden Eternity.”
A Writer’s Diary is a beautiful read in its entirety. Complement it with Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world and Margaret Mead’s dreamed epiphany about why life is like blue jelly.
Source: Brain Pickings
- See more at: http://www.thinkinghumanity.com/2016/05/the-day-dostoyevsky-discovered-the-meaning-of-life-in-a-dream.html#sthash.HlQInCLv.nHeErazr.dpuf
One November night in the 1870s, legendary Russian writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky (November 11, 1821–February 9, 1881) discovered the meaning of life in a dream — or, at least, the protagonist in his final short story did. The piece, which first appeared in the altogether revelatory A Writer’s Diary (public library) under the title “The Dream of a Queer Fellow” and was later published separately as The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, explores themes similar to those in Dostoyevsky’s 1864 novel Notes from the Underground, considered the first true existential novel. True to Stephen King’s assertion that “good fiction is the truth inside the lie,” the story sheds light on Dostoyevsky’s personal spiritual and philosophical bents with extraordinary clarity — perhaps more so than any of his other published works. The contemplation at its heart falls somewhere between Tolstoy’s tussle with the meaning of life and Philip K. Dick’s hallucinatory exegesis.
The story begins with the narrator wandering the streets of St. Petersburg on “a gloomy night, the gloomiest night you can conceive,” dwelling on how others have ridiculed him all his life and slipping into nihilism with the “terrible anguish” of believing that nothing matters. He peers into the glum sky, gazes at a lone little star, and contemplates suicide; two months earlier, despite his destitution, he had bought an “excellent revolver” with the same intention, but the gun had remained in his drawer since. Suddenly, as he is staring at the star, a little girl of about eight, wearing ragged clothes and clearly in distress, grabs him by the arm and inarticulately begs his help. But the protagonist, disenchanted with life, shoos her away and returns to the squalid room he shares with a drunken old captain, furnished with “a sofa covered in American cloth, a table with some books, two chairs and an easy-chair, old, incredibly old, but still an easy-chair.”
As he sinks into the easy-chair to think about ending his life, he finds himself haunted by the image of the little girl, leading him to question his nihilistic disposition. Dostoyevsky writes:
I knew for certain that I would shoot myself that night, but how long I would sit by the table — that I did not know. I should certainly have shot myself, but for that little girl.
You see: though it was all the same to me, I felt pain, for instance. If any one were to strike me, I should feel pain. Exactly the same in the moral sense: if anything very pitiful happened, I would feel pity, just as I did before everything in life became all the same to me. I had felt pity just before: surely, I would have helped a child without fail. Why did I not help the little girl, then? It was because of an idea that came into my mind then. When she was pulling at me and calling to me, suddenly a question arose before me, which I could not answer. The question was an idle one; but it made me angry. I was angry because of my conclusion, that if I had already made up my mind that I would put an end to myself to-night, then now more than ever before everything in the world should be all the same to me. Why was it that I felt it was not all the same to me, and pitied the little girl? I remember I pitied her very much: so much that I felt a pain that was even strange and incredible in my situation…
It seemed clear that if I was a man and not a cipher yet, and until I was changed into a cipher, then I was alive and therefore could suffer, be angry and feel shame for my actions. Very well. But if I were to kill myself, for instance, in two hours from now, what is the girl to me, and what have I to do with shame or with anything on earth? I am going to be a cipher, an absolute zero. Could my consciousness that I would soon absolutely cease to exist, and that therefore nothing would exist, have not the least influence on my feeling of pity for the girl or on my sense of shame for the vileness I had committed?
From the moral, he veers into the existential:
It became clear to me that life and the world, as it were, depended upon me. I might even say that the world had existed for me alone. I should shoot myself, and then there would be no world at all, for me at least. Not to mention that perhaps there will really be nothing for any one after me, and the whole world, as soon as my consciousness is extinguished, will also be extinguished like a phantom, as part of my consciousness only, and be utterly abolished, since perhaps all this world and all these men are myself alone.
Beholding “these new, thronging questions,” he plunges into a contemplation of what free will really means. In a passage that calls to mind John Cage’s famous aphorism on the meaning of life — “No why. Just here.” — and George Lucas’s assertion that “life is beyond reason,” Dostoyevsky suggests through his protagonist that what gives meaning to life is life itself:
One strange consideration suddenly presented itself to me. If I had previously lived on the moon or in Mars, and I had there been dishonored and disgraced so utterly that one can only imagine it sometimes in a dream or a nightmare, and if I afterwards found myself on earth and still preserved a consciousness of what I had done on the other planet, and if I knew besides that I would never by any chance return, then, if I were to look at the moon from the earth — would it be all the same to me or not? Would I feel any shame for my action or not? The questions were idle and useless, for the revolver was already lying before me, and I knew with all my being that this thing would happen for certain: but the questions excited me to rage. I could not die now, without having solved this first. In a word, that little girl saved me, for my questions made me postpone pulling the trigger.
Just as he ponders this, the protagonist slips into sleep in the easy-chair, but it’s a sleep that has the quality of wakeful dreaming. In one of many wonderful semi-asides, Dostoyevsky peers at the eternal question of why we have dreams:
Dreams are extraordinarily strange. One thing appears with terrifying clarity, with the details finely set like jewels, while you leap over another, as though you did not notice it at all — space and time, for instance. It seems that dreams are the work not of mind but of desire, not of the head but of the heart… In a dream things quite incomprehensible come to pass. For instance, my brother died five years ago. Sometimes I see him in a dream: he takes part in my affairs, and we are very excited, while I, all the time my dream goes on, know and remember perfectly that my brother is dead and buried. Why am I not surprised that he, though dead, is still near me and busied about me? Why does my mind allow all that?
In this strange state, the protagonist dreams that he takes his revolver and points it at his heart — not his head, where he had originally intended to shoot himself. After waiting a second or two, his dream-self pulls the trigger quickly. Then something remarkable happens:
I felt no pain, but it seemed to me that with the report, everything in me was convulsed, and everything suddenly extinguished. It was terribly black all about me. I became as though blind and numb, and I lay on my back on something hard. I could see nothing, neither could I make any sound. People were walking and making a noise about me: the captain’s bass voice, the landlady’s screams… Suddenly there was a break. I am being carried in a closed coffin. I feel the coffin swinging and I think about that, and suddenly for the first time the idea strikes me that I am dead, quite dead. I know it and do not doubt it; I cannot see nor move, yet at the same time I feel and think. But I am soon reconciled to that, and as usual in a dream I accept the reality without a question.
Now I am being buried in the earth. Every one leaves me and I am alone, quite alone. I do not stir… I lay there and — strange to say — I expected nothing, accepting without question that a dead man has nothing to expect. But it was damp. I do not know how long passed — an hour, a few days, or many days. Suddenly, on my left eye which was closed, a drop of water fell, which had leaked through the top of the grave. In a minute fell another, then a third, and so on, every minute. Suddenly, deep indignation kindled in my heart and suddenly in my heart I felt physical pain. ‘It’s my wound,’ I thought. ‘It’s where I shot myself. The bullet is there.’ And all the while the water dripped straight on to my closed eye. Suddenly, I cried out, not with a voice, for I was motionless, but with all my being, to the arbiter of all that was being done to me.
“Whosoever thou art, if thou art, and if there exists a purpose more intelligent than the things which are now taking place, let it be present here also. But if thou dost take vengeance upon me for my foolish suicide, then know, by the indecency and absurdity of further existence, that no torture whatever that may befall me, can ever be compared to the contempt which I will silently feel, even through millions of years of martyrdom.”
I cried out and was silent. Deep silence lasted a whole minute. One more drop even fell. But I knew and believed, infinitely and steadfastly, that in a moment everything would infallibly change. Suddenly, my grave opened. I do not know whether it had been uncovered and opened, but I was taken by some dark being unknown to me, and we found ourselves in space. Suddenly, I saw. It was deep night; never, never had such darkness been! We were borne through space and were already far from the earth. I asked nothing of him who led me. I was proud and waited. I assured myself that I was not afraid, and my heart melted with rapture at the thought that I was not afraid. I do not remember how long we rushed through space, and I cannot imagine it. It happened as always in a dream when you leap over space and time and the laws of life and mind, and you stop only there where your heart delights.
The Day Dostoyevsky Discovered the Meaning of Life in a Dream
The 1845 depiction of a galaxy that inspired Van Gogh’s ‘The Starry Night,’ from Michael Benson’s Cosmigraphics: Picturing Space Through Time
Through the thick darkness, he sees a star — the same little star he had seen before shooing the girl away. As the dream continues, the protagonist describes a sort of transcendence akin to what is experienced during psychedelic drug trips or in deep meditation states:
Suddenly a familiar yet most overwhelming emotion shook me through. I saw our sun. I knew that it could not be our sun, which had begotten our earth, and that we were an infinite distance away, but somehow all through me I recognized that it was exactly the same sun as ours, its copy and double. A sweet and moving delight echoed rapturously through my soul. The dear power of light, of that same light which had given me birth, touched my heart and revived it, and I felt life, the old life, for the first time since my death.
He finds himself in another world, Earthlike in every respect, except “everything seemed to be bright with holiday, with a great and sacred triumph, finally achieved” — a world populated by “children of the sun,” happy people whose eyes “shone with a bright radiance” and whose faces “gleamed with wisdom, and with a certain consciousness, consummated in tranquility.” The protagonist exclaims:
Oh, instantly, at the first glimpse of their faces I understood everything, everything!
Conceding that “it was only a dream,” he nonetheless asserts that “the sensation of the love of those beautiful and innocent people” was very much real and something he carried into wakeful life on Earth. Awaking in his easy-chair at dawn, he exclaims anew with rekindled gratitude for life:
Oh, now — life, life! I lifted my hands and called upon the eternal truth, not called, but wept. Rapture, ineffable rapture exalted all my being. Yes, to live…
Dostoyevsky concludes with his protagonist’s reflection on the shared essence of life, our common conquest of happiness and kindness:
All are tending to one and the same goal, at least all aspire to the same goal, from the wise man to the lowest murderer, but only by different ways. It is an old truth, but there is this new in it: I cannot go far astray. I saw the truth. I saw and know that men could be beautiful and happy, without losing the capacity to live upon the earth. I will not, I cannot believe that evil is the normal condition of men… I saw the truth, I did not invent it with my mind. I saw, saw, and her living image filled my soul for ever. I saw her in such consummate perfection that I cannot possibly believe that she was not among men. How can I then go astray? … The living image of what I saw will be with me always, and will correct and guide me always. Oh, I am strong and fresh, I can go on, go on, even for a thousand years.
[…]
And it is so simple… The one thing is — love thy neighbor as thyself — that is the one thing. That is all, nothing else is needed. You will instantly find how to live.
A century later, Jack Kerouac would echo this in his own magnificent meditation on kindness and the “Golden Eternity.”
A Writer’s Diary is a beautiful read in its entirety. Complement it with Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world and Margaret Mead’s dreamed epiphany about why life is like blue jelly.
Source: Brain Pickings
- See more at: http://www.thinkinghumanity.com/2016/05/the-day-dostoyevsky-discovered-the-meaning-of-life-in-a-dream.html#sthash.HlQInCLv.nHeErazr.dpuf
2016-08-09
What is a 'cwtch'?
Are you perplexed by the pronunciation of this funny five-lettered term that (apparently) rhymes with ‘butch’? If someone asked you for a ‘cwtch’, would you know what to do? If someone tried to ‘cwtch up’ to you, would you run away? If the sheer mention of the word evokes a series of potentially awkward situations, then it’s probably best to find out exactly what this popular Welsh word really means...
The Urban Dictionary provides the following definition:
‘…Cwtch, which has long been a familiar word in the Welsh language, was given two definitions: noun (Welsh) 1. a cupboard or cubbyhole. 2. a cuddle or hug.’
However, this definition isn’t conclusive, because the wonderful thing about the Welsh word, ‘cwtch’, is that there’s no literal English translation. There are plenty of similar words, such as ‘cuddle’, ‘snuggle’ and ‘hug’, but none share quite the same affectionate sentiment as a ‘cwtch’.
Ask a Welsh person what a ‘cwtch’ is and often they’ll give you a fond smile – because a cwtch is evocative – it has the magical quality of transporting someone back to the safety of their childhood. This corresponds with the word’s other meaning, which is a place to safely store things – if you give someone a cwtch, you're figuratively giving them a ‘safe place’.
So where has this extraordinary term come from? The Urban Dictionary says:
‘...The word has its origins in the Middle English word "couche" which meant a resting or hiding place…’
Therefore, while ‘cwtch’ may have started out life as a small, cubbyhole word, it’s since become much bigger, now popular with non-Welsh speakers in Wales and beyond. Cross the Welsh border and you don’t need to look hard to find it emblazoned on souvenirs – arguably, it’s a part of Wales’s national identity, reflecting the warmth and affection of its people. So, if someone asks you for a cwtch, your best bet is to jump right in (not into the cupboard though!)
http://www.southwales.ac.uk/story/926/
(Definition and origins taken from the Urban Dictionary: www.urbandictionary.com)
The Urban Dictionary provides the following definition:
‘…Cwtch, which has long been a familiar word in the Welsh language, was given two definitions: noun (Welsh) 1. a cupboard or cubbyhole. 2. a cuddle or hug.’
However, this definition isn’t conclusive, because the wonderful thing about the Welsh word, ‘cwtch’, is that there’s no literal English translation. There are plenty of similar words, such as ‘cuddle’, ‘snuggle’ and ‘hug’, but none share quite the same affectionate sentiment as a ‘cwtch’.
Ask a Welsh person what a ‘cwtch’ is and often they’ll give you a fond smile – because a cwtch is evocative – it has the magical quality of transporting someone back to the safety of their childhood. This corresponds with the word’s other meaning, which is a place to safely store things – if you give someone a cwtch, you're figuratively giving them a ‘safe place’.
So where has this extraordinary term come from? The Urban Dictionary says:
‘...The word has its origins in the Middle English word "couche" which meant a resting or hiding place…’
Therefore, while ‘cwtch’ may have started out life as a small, cubbyhole word, it’s since become much bigger, now popular with non-Welsh speakers in Wales and beyond. Cross the Welsh border and you don’t need to look hard to find it emblazoned on souvenirs – arguably, it’s a part of Wales’s national identity, reflecting the warmth and affection of its people. So, if someone asks you for a cwtch, your best bet is to jump right in (not into the cupboard though!)
http://www.southwales.ac.uk/story/926/
(Definition and origins taken from the Urban Dictionary: www.urbandictionary.com)
2016-08-01
How Quantum Mechanics is changing everything we know about our lives.
Quantum physics is the new physics that is pointing to something far greater than the materialistic world that we once believed to be the basis of our existence. Not only is it disproving our original perception of space and time, but it is opening the doors to the possibility of time travel, telepathy, and consciousness creating our reality.
Below are some of the major properties of quantum mechanics and the implications they have on the world around us. You won’t be disappointed!
1. Quantum Entanglement: When two sub-atomic particles cross paths with one another, they become “entangled.”
This means that their properties become linked with one another. When these entangled particles are separated (even millions of miles or light-years apart), what happens to one particle instantaneously happens to the other particle.
What this means: This means that information is travelling far faster than the speed of light to be communicated instantaneously across vast distances.
This defies what we previously knew to be possible, and also hints at the notion of telepathy having the potential to be scientifically studied.
Einstein referred to this as “spooky action at a distance.” The new physics is currently being harnessed in an attempt to build “quantum computers” that would revolutionize technology as we know it today.
2. Atoms and subatomic particles can be in two places at once. In 2012 Dr. S. Haroche and Dr. Wineland won the Nobel Prize for using quantum mechanics to prove that electrons can be in two places at once. This theory was tested to 1 part in 100 billion in terms of accuracy. This officially made it the most successful physical theory that ever existed.
What this means: In theory, this notion correlates with the Many-Worlds Interpretation of quantum mechanics. This theory implies that all potential realities and possibilities already exist, and that there are potentially an infinite number of parallel realities. This theory was brought to life by a scientist named Hugh Everett.
This would technically mean that any actions you judge in others, you have also committed in a parallel reality. It would also mean that what is happening to you right now has already happened and will happen again.
Most importantly, it would essentially mean that we collectively create our personal reality — as the “Implicate” order of existence projects outward, the “Explicate” order around us (See David Bohm’s “Implicate and Explicate Order of Existence”) projects back inwards. This happens through the means of our collective energy being filtered through our human consciousness to project the outer reality we experience.
3. In the quantum world, everything behaves as both waves and particles! So sub-atomic particles can behave like matter or move in wave patterns. The most mind-blowing part about this is that particles behave like waves when we aren’t looking, and like matter when we are!
The act of looking is what changes the behaviour of the particles.
What this means: This means that consciousness literally influences reality. The act of observing something can actually be responsible for bringing a potential reality to life. You may have heard of the Law of Attraction; quantum physics essentially supports this idea.
When you focus on a desired outcome, it is almost as if you “reel in” that already existing quantum super-position of reality that brings it to life!
4. Quantum particles have the ability to move back and forth through time. Very recently, scientists at the University of Queensland were able to simulate photons travelling through time. In one case, the photon was sent through a wormhole to interact with itself in a previous state. In another, a photon traveled through regular space-time to interact with a different photon.
What this means: Quite simply, this means that our five senses are very limited in the way that they allow us to perceive the world. Classical physics and much of science is based on finding proof from conducting experiments and observing their results.
But we interpret our observations based on our limited five senses. Quantum physics is beginning to demonstrate that there is so much more outside of our current mainstream perception of reality.
This also means that time and space aren’t what we have made them out to be. They are not linear functions.
This also opens the hypothetical doors to the possibility of time travel.
If these sub-atomic particles are able to do this, and we are made of sub-atomic particles, what implication does this have?
One thing I have always found funny about mainstream science is that it prefers to ignore the miraculous and study the ordinary. When astonishing events take place that challenge our foundation of scientific beliefs, scientists that wish to explore them are often condemned by their peers and community.
We know that science is based on proving things through measurement and calculation.
But if what we are perceiving is limited because our five senses only provide a piece of the entire picture, maybe it is time we began to focus on studying what is out of the ordinary.
Quantum mechanics is currently challenging and uprooting some of our belief systems that have previously been based on the limitations of our senses. Rather than looking at the external world, science is now beginning to investigate the internal world in the form of microscopic particle behavior.
To contemplate that these particles are behaving this way and these particles are what form the world around us is truly mind-boggling.
Source: http://www.collective-evolution.com/2016/07/31/how-quantum-mechanics-is-changing-everything-we-know-about-our-lives/
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