The Other World Is Not Elsewhere: A Teaching on Imagination, Bestowal, and the Reality We’ve Forgotten How to See
The Atrophied Muscle
There is a muscle in the human spirit that atrophies so quietly we barely notice the loss.
It isn’t like the muscles that soften when we stop climbing stairs or lifting our children. This one wastes away in the gaps between learning that bills don’t pay themselves and discovering that the people we trusted are capable of wounding us. Somewhere in the accumulation of "reasonable" disappointments, we stop using the part of ourselves that once built cathedrals from couch cushions and actually lived in them.
I’m not talking about nostalgia. I’m not interested in the saccharine invitations to "reclaim your inner child" that decorate wellness retreats. I mean something more urgent: the capacity to perceive realities that exist beyond what our defended, calculating minds have decided is "real."
- The Kabbalists called this shifting from mochin de katnut (the constricted mind) to mochin de gadlut (the expanded soul).
- The Buddhists spoke of moving from avidya (not-seeing) to vidya (clear sight).
- The Yogis mapped it as the journey from the ahamkara (the ego-maker) toward boundless awareness.
But here is what the textbooks often skip: the doorway to this "other" seeing isn't found in a meditation retreat or a peak experience. The doorway is a total, gut-level reorientation of why you are living at all.
Two Forces, Two Worlds
We exist—all of us, always—inside our perception. This isn’t a philosophical "maybe"; it is the most practical truth of your life.
Right now, your "reality" is a construction. It’s a movie assembled by your senses, edited by your intellect, and color-graded by your trauma. The chair you’re sitting in exists for you only as a perception. The Kabbalists would say you are experiencing the world through kelim (vessels), and right now, those vessels are shaped by one primary force: Reception. Taking in. Drawing toward the center.
This isn't a moral failing; it’s the architecture of survival. From our first breath, we are wired to ask: What do I need? How do I get it? How do I keep it?
This force—l'kabel—literally carves the world we see. We see threats because we have things to protect. We see scarcity because we are trying to accumulate. We see separation because we’ve built a self that requires a border.
But there is an opposite force: l'hashpia—bestowal, or the outward flow. These two forces don't just create different attitudes; they create different worlds.
The Armor You Forgot You’re Wearing
When you were small, you could slip between worlds without effort. The backyard wasn't "like" a jungle; it was a jungle. Your imagination wasn't an escape hatch; it was a perceptual organ.
Then, layer by layer, you built protection. Every betrayal added a coat of varnish. Every time you learned that "hoping too hard" led to "hurting too much," you reinforced the walls. This is how humans survive.
But the armor eventually fused to your bone. You forgot you were wearing it. Now, you think the muted colors of the world are just how colors look. You think the distance between you and everyone else is just "the human condition." You think the low-grade hum of loneliness is the baseline frequency of the universe.
It isn’t.
There is a world interpenetrating this very moment. A world where the organizing principle is not what can I get? but what can I give? That single shift changes the physics of everything you see.
What Happens When the Flow Reverses
In the Bodhisattva vow, the practitioner commits to staying in the mess of the world until everyone is free. This isn't martyrdom; it’s a technology of perception. When you orient toward the welfare of others, the "film" over your eyes thins.
When your inner force flows outward, reality reveals itself differently:
- Threat Diminishes: If you aren’t hoarding, you don't need to guard the hoard. The world is less dangerous when you have less to lose.
- Separation Softens: The boundaries of "mine" and "yours" become porous.
- Vibrancy Returns: Colors and connections that were invisible through the armor suddenly become palpable.
This isn't "magic." It’s what happens when you stop looking through the lens of self-defense.
The Honest Part
I refuse to offer you a sanitized teaching. This shift isn't about being a "nice person" or performing generosity while keeping a secret scorecard. The armor is clever; it knows how to look soft while staying rigid.
This requires wanting the welfare of another with the same visceral urgency you currently feel for your own comfort. You can't manufacture that with willpower. It only comes through the slow, disciplined work of remembering how to imagine. ---
The Practices of the Reversed Flow
1. The Visualization of Luminous Extension
- Feel the Beat: Sit still. Don't just check your pulse; feel the rhythm from the inside out.
- The Outward Pulse: Imagine that each beat sends a pulse of light—not blood—outward. It isn't something you're losing; it’s something that multiplies as it leaves you.
- Shift the Location: Imagine you are not the body in the chair, but the light itself. You are the extension, not the person extending it. You are the giving, not the giver.
2. The Micro-Bestowal
Three times today, during an ordinary interaction—with a barista, a child, or a difficult colleague—do this:
- The Silent Question: Before you speak, ask: What does this person need right now? (Not what you need from them).
- The Impression: Wait for the answer. It might be: They need to be seen. They need space. They need to not be judged.
- The Movement: Offer a tiny movement toward that need. A second of eye contact. A genuine question. A moment of silence.
Notice what happens to your internal state. You are teaching your body what the mind can only theorize: that giving is not depletion; it is expansion.
The Invitation
You haven't lost your imagination; you’ve just been using it for the wrong things.
The world of isolation and scarcity is only one version of the story. Another world exists, here and now, available to anyone willing to reverse the direction of their heart. The child in the blanket fort wasn't naive. They knew what we were trained to forget: Consciousness shapes reality. What you imagine with full commitment, you begin to inhabit. It is time to remember what you knew before you learned to call it foolishness.
I write because the words come through me and demand to be shared. I teach because transformation shouldn't be locked behind paywalls that only the comfortable can afford. I'm building toward a non-profit because I know what it means to need shelter, need healing, need someone to say "you belong here" — and I intend to be that someone for others.
But alchemy requires resources. The mystic still needs to eat.
If this work means something to you — if you want to walk beside me as I build something new from the wreckage of what was — I welcome your support. Every contribution fuels the creativity, sustains the healing, and brings the vision closer to ground.
With gratitude and grounded fire,
— The Grounded Mystic
