The Grand Expulsion

 

  Before the first tremor of existence, before the raw, bracing gasp of air-filled nascent lungs, we dwelt, as it were, in the very heart of the Ineffable. Imagine, if you will, a vast, shimmering ocean of divine energy, an electric sea of boundless power that some, in hushed tones, dare to call the Godhead. We were not merely near it; we were of it, a single, unburdened current flowing in that endless, unified expanse. There was no "us," only the "One," a seamless continuation of that shimmering, boundless ocean.

  Then came the Miracle of Creation—and what a stark, magnificent marvel it proved to be! This was no gentle unfurling, no quiet blossoming into being. Nay, it was a violent sundering, a cataclysmic break from the seamless unity. Picture a droplet, heavy with the very essence of the surging ocean, torn with force from the main. So too were we cast forth, each a solitary spark flung from the blazing heart of the divine. This separation, this forceful birth, is the truest of miracles. It is the very moment we became distinct; no longer a mere ripple in an infinite current, but a unique entity, bearing a fragment of that divine energy deep within our core.

  Herein lies the glorious, terrifying freedom. For in that sundering, that tearing away from the Godhead, we gained what was previously impossible: consciousness, Will, and the profound capacity for both soaring triumph and crushing despair. We inherited the burden—and indeed, the very glory—of individuality.

  Through our earthly sojourn, we strive, we battle, we yearn. Perhaps, in the deepest recesses of our souls, we still perceive the faint, phantom pull of that electric ocean, a primal longing for the infinite unity we once knew. Why, then, this shattering? Why this deliberate breaking of the One into countless shards? Is it for God’s own experience, a means to know itself through the myriad forms it casts into the void? Or is it rather a crucible, a forge where individual souls are tempered and tested, so that one day, perhaps, they might return not as a mere drop, but as a hardened, unique jewel, bearing the scars and triumphs of their lonely voyage?

  This, then, is the grand, grim truth: the miracle of our existence is not a gentle gift, but a violent expulsion. We are not born into the Godhead; we are born from it, severed and set adrift, each a solitary vessel upon the storm-tossed seas of life. And it is in that terrifying, magnificent isolation that the very essence of our being truly lies.