A Day in Planet Earth

Yes in Planet Earth. Not on Planet Earth. For are we not walking within the relatively minuscule top layer of a complex living system? A system that shields us from the rays of the sun, bathes us in the air to feed our lungs, the warmth to soothe our hearts, and the rain to water our souls.

On suggests separation. As if we had somehow landed on a foreign piece of solidified magma hurling through space, and decided that it would make for a good home, a good place to use for a while. As if we were here by chance, isolated and self-sufficient. Alienated from the whole, and thus entitled to our anthropocentric utilitarianism.

Yet nothing could be further from the truth: we are not separate. But how connected do we feel? And I don’t mean how connected through the internet, our many devices and social networks. I don’t even mean how connected to other humans. How connected do we feel to this natural world which breathes through us, day in, day out, whilst we go about our lives mostly ignoring that it is there?

Isn’t it remarkable that by virtue of living in the planet, namely between the earth’s crust and the ionosphere, we are living within the standing electromagnetic wave of the Earth, the base frequency of which – the Schuman frequency of 7.8 Hertz – corresponds to the frequency of our brains when we are in a state of deep meditation (at the border between the Alpha and Theta states)?

Mere coincidence? I don’t believe so. And I would go so far as to say that by tuning into nature – by refining our awareness and sending out feelers into the unexplored depths of our connection – we have a mechanism at our disposal to drop effortlessly into a state of deep relaxation, conducive to rest and regeneration.

And yet, everywhere we turn, antennas are popping up like mushrooms (look at this map for example). The devices we carry against our bodies breed like there’s no tomorrow. We swim in an electromagnetic soup of gargantuan proportions, the implications of which we have not even started to acknowledge (see the documentary Resonance: Beings of Frequency, which brings up some interesting questions).

How can we still feel our connection to nature through this fog? How can our bodies find rest and restoration when they are constantly subject to electromagnetic stress? No wonder more and more people suffer from insomnia, migraines, mental agitation, and a host of other “unexplained” symptoms. How do we even know what’s “normal” anymore, when all of us are immersed in the soup, when the control group has practically been eliminated?

And suddenly I can see the famous frog sitting in a pot of slowly heating water. The temperature has become uncomfortable. The lid is off. Freedom is at hand. Yet the frog doesn’t jump out because she has forgotten the ecstatic bliss of living in cold water.

The skeptics will dismiss all of this, demanding more evidence. The disenchanted poets will mourn the loss of a system that pulsated in unison, singing odes to the synchronistic beauty of a time long past. But what about us? What will we do, as we sit in our warm pot, reflecting on ways to use technology that do not harm our well-being? Will we yearn for another taste of cold water?

Perhaps, just perhaps, we will hear the faint voice of the Wild Woman of the forest, calling us to her remote confines. Through her eyes, we will watch the evening sun draping the world in a golden glow, and remember the softness of our relationship with Life. The mountains will suddenly seem closer, the trees shine more brightly, as a bird’s call echoes through our hearts. We will surrender to the flow permeating all things, and merge into the sheer beauty that embraces all.

And then, she will ask: Can we take the risk and responsibility of continuing to act as if we were living on the planet?

The answer is no.

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