The White World

In my mediations, I sometimes find myself covered in a white, feathery substance. It grows from my energy field like a deep and spacious cushioning, so fine and tender that it feels as though I have become like a cotton field in summer. Before, I thought of it as white ash, but now I am coming to experience the subtleties of its texture. When I am meditating in the white world, I am invisible in an ocean of white jellyfish. I am floating through the vague and mandala-like panorama of a microbial landscape.

When the body is at rest and the eyes are closed and the breath is even, it dives down, down to the depths within, where other dimensions lie within the folds of what we call reality.

The white world is a plane of healing and restoration. It is neither above nor below; a beautiful, uncharted paradox with nobody to witness it. The tensions of upholding a persona are lost. All memory and meaning are lost. An awareness of this endlessly unfolding cocoon is all that remains.

I have reached it by following a single thread of pain to the bottom of the ocean, down through the fears to where the darkness becomes a supernatural colour, an impossible colour, and then passing through the colour and beyond it, into white. I have reached it through my dreams.

There are many ways to the white world; you will have your own way. Sometimes the experience of another, the sheer energy of it, can be enough to trigger a memory.