Author, Philosopher, Spiritual Teacher, A Lead Facilitator at Sacred Media's Integral Mastery Academy, Founder of Yinnergy Meditation/Neurofeedback, Bodhi Mental Care & Wellness, Co-founder of KeMor Centre for Innovative Development
Hemispheric division was only ever provisional—a strategy of consciousness to explore its own depths in fragments. Beneath analysis and intuition lies a singular awareness undivided by thought. At the deepest level of samadhi, this becomes unmistakable.
The brain no longer labours to interpret. It surrenders. Left and right hemispheres fall into perfect accord, no longer mirroring separation but revealing the indivisibility they always contained. Neurons do not merely fire; they fall silent together, resonating with a profound coherence that has no opposite. This is not communication. It is communion.
Thought dissolves at its root. The compulsion to compare, measure, name—all of it collapses. Awareness rests in its own nature, ungraspable yet unmistakably present. It is not that the hemispheres stop working. They merge into a single gesture of knowing beyond knowing, a luminous stillness where there is no observer or observed.
Such samadhi is not a trance or escape. It is a return to the origin, the silent ground of all differentiation. The meditator does not disappear but is seen never to have been separate from anything. The brain itself seems to remember its oldest purpose—not survival or analysis but offering itself as a vessel for the unconditioned.
Neurons remember their wholeness. The body breathes without ambition. Mind rests without conflict. Awareness shines without commentary. What was divided knows itself as one. This is the simplicity hidden beneath all complexity, the union prior to all partnerships.
Such samadhi cannot be forced, only recognized when the mind ceases to grasp. It waits behind every breath, beneath every thought, ready to reveal itself when the seeker becomes still enough to listen.
Morgan O. Smith
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I have spent years trying to describe what happened to me, and every time I speak about it, the words become more suspect.
Language can outline an experience, but it cannot contain it. At best, words point like the crooked finger of an old monk who knows he’ll die before finishing the sentence.
What happened felt like the culmination of every practice, every prayer, every insight. I thought I was climbing a mountain of understanding, reaching ever-higher plateaus. The views grew wider, the air thinner, my confidence stronger.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing to stand on.
No summit.
No climber.
Not even a fall.
Awareness no longer rested on any subject or object. There was no watcher, no witness. The entire machinery of spiritual seeking—so intricate, so earnest—collapsed without fanfare.
What remained didn’t feel like a state. States come and go. This had no coming. No going.
No arrival.
It wasn’t some radiant oneness to bask in. Even calling it oneness implied there could have been twoness.
It wasn’t emptiness in the Buddhist sense, the elegant doctrine that everything is dependently arisen and thus without essence. That too felt too architectural, too systematic.
It was simply nothing that needed explaining.
Not a blank.
Not a void.
Not a silence that replaced noise.
Silence and noise lost all difference.
Thoughts continued—because why wouldn’t they?
Breath moved.
The world appeared precisely as before: sounds, colours, forms.
Except no one stood behind it all, calling it mine.
No vantage remained from which to call anything anything.
The sense of being a person—so carefully cultivated over a lifetime—dissolved like salt in water. But even that suggests a process. The truth is it never had any reality to begin with.
This wasn’t annihilation in the frightening sense. It was astonishingly gentle. The self didn’t die screaming. It simply wasn’t found.
Where had it gone?
Nowhere.
Because nowhere was needed.
There was an uncanny intimacy with everything. Not the intimacy of closeness, but the absence of distance.
A bird calling outside wasn’t outside.
A passing thought wasn’t inside.
Nothing was outside or inside.
Without a center, there was no periphery.
No boundary defined what I was or wasn’t.
There was no I to define.
This wasn’t bliss in the usual sense—no narcotic wash of pleasure.
No ecstatic union.
Ecstasy requires an experiencer.
There was no experiencer left to feel enlightened.
And so the phrase “I had an enlightenment experience” is a lie spoken for convenience.
Experience implies an owner, a timeline, a sequence of events.
This wasn’t an event.
Events happen in time.
Time didn’t stop; it lost its claim.
Past and future stopped being places to travel.
What about now?
Even that lost its centrality.
This was so direct, so unarguable, so empty of specialness.
No claim to make.
No badge to wear.
No insight to hold.
No teaching to give.
Nothing was revealed.
Nothing hidden remained.
No questions answered.
Questions fell away for lack of a questioner.
The sacred and the profane lost their separation.
There was no vantage from which to prefer one thing over another.
Life went on.
Dishes washed.
Conversations happened.
Traffic lights changed.
Anger arose.
Tears fell.
Laughter erupted.
All of it completely itself.
No attempt to improve or transcend any of it.
Nothing to transcend.
No one to be improved.
If anything changed, it was this relentless dropping of all pretenses.
All strategies.
All defenses.
Even the defense of being spiritual.
Especially that.
No seeker.
No sought.
No path.
No realization.
Just life, unadorned.
Not life as concept.
Life as immediacy.
Life with no one living it.
And I see now that every attempt to name this diminishes it.
But that’s the game of words.
Let them fail.
I won’t call this truth.
Truth is too grand.
Too final.
Too proud.
I won’t call this liberation.
Liberation implies something bound.
Nothing was ever bound.
I won’t call this God.
God suggests someone else.
Something else.
Otherness itself dissolved.
This wasn’t merging.
Not two to merge.
No return to source.
No departure.
No source.
Just this.
No this.
And even writing that betrays it.
So here I will stop.
Not because I have finished.
But because there is nothing left to finish.
Morgan O. Smith
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There comes a moment on the spiritual path when pain is no longer theoretical. It moves from being news headlines or distant horrors into something you feel as if it were happening inside your own body. Starvation in one region of the world burns in your own gut. The terror of assault trembles in your own bones. The rage of a lynching mob snarls behind your teeth.
This is no metaphor. Consciousness itself breaks open to encompass every cry, every injustice, every cruelty humanity has ever inflicted on itself or on the earth. There is no distance left between observer and observed. The entire spectrum of suffering is laid bare without filter or anesthetic.
Mystics have called this the dark night of the soul, but the phrase barely hints at its magnitude. It is not your personal night alone. It is the night of the whole species, the whole cosmos. Racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, genocides, rapes, wars, the silent grief of mothers burying children, the loneliness of elders abandoned, the silent weeping of animals led to slaughter. Even the death of worlds, the cold ending of stars.
This unbearable totality can seem like the end of sanity. It is, in fact, the end of the false self that pretends it is separate from any of it.
What follows is not relief but a deeper unmasking. Your own buried fears, resentments, and desires surface with equal force. You see your potential to be the perpetrator as well as the victim. There is no moral high ground left. You become both the murdered and the murderer, the liberator and the oppressor.
This is not punishment. It is a purification so complete it destroys every shield you held up against reality.
Something unexpected happens when there is no more defence. Love appears—not a comforting emotion, but a force that can hold everything without turning away. This love does not choose sides. It does not say “this is holy, that is unholy.” It does not deny the reality of atrocity. It enfolds it.
Ultimate love contains the screams and the silence after. The destruction and the rebirth. The cruelty of humanity and its boundless mercy. The ugliness of our shadow and the beauty of our tenderness.
This is the same force that drives a mother to shield her child from harm and the same force that calls the contemplative to pray for the world. It is what lies behind the tears of remorse, the acts of forgiveness, the revolutions that upend injustice, the small kindnesses that go unnoticed.
Such love is not naive. It has seen everything. It knows what humans are capable of at our worst. Precisely because of that, it offers compassion without condition.
Spiritual awakening, at its deepest, is not an escape from the world’s pain but an embrace of it so complete that the illusion of separation collapses. What remains is love that refuses to exclude anything.
Love that has become vast enough to be the world itself.
Morgan O. Smith
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Accidents are rarely welcome. They’re events that disrupt plans, crack illusions of control, and leave us changed. Spiritual awakening carries something of that wildness. It can’t be willed into being like a project with clear steps and predictable results. Yet there’s a paradox: devoted contemplative practice seems to make one more likely to be undone by it.
Meditation does not guarantee enlightenment. It prepares no certificate, no badge of arrival. Instead, it functions more like softening the soil so a seed can break through when conditions conspire. This isn’t an engineering feat—it’s an invitation to the uncontrollable.
Spiritual traditions often warn against striving too hard. Effort burns away distractions, but effort itself becomes another barrier if clung to. Discipline is essential, but so is surrender. A meditator learns to sit still enough for their self-concept to slip, fragile as old paint on a crumbling wall. What breaks through is not what the ego planned.
Such a shift is catastrophic for self-image. One can’t choreograph being seized by silence, seen through by awareness, or stripped of all strategies. Preparation helps only because it erodes resistance. A lifetime of practice might be nothing more than a way of making oneself more susceptible to grace.
Grace here is no moral reward. It’s the inexplicable unveiling of what has always been true. Practice hones attention so that, eventually, one notices the absurdity of separation. The boundary keeping “me” apart from the rest collapses. It can feel like an accident precisely because it breaks expectation so thoroughly.
So why practice? Not to force awakening but to grow familiar with letting go. To cultivate the courage to be shattered. To understand that no amount of control can deliver the gift, but the willingness to wait can make one receptive. A practitioner may become the sort of person for whom awakening is more likely—not because they deserve it, but because they are no longer guarding against it.
True meditation is a kind of sabotage of our usual certainties. That is its danger, and its promise. The question isn’t whether practice causes awakening like cause yields effect, but whether practice makes us vulnerable enough to be struck by what is always here.
Morgan O. Smith
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Most speak of choice as if it lives at the surface, where preference, fear, habit, and desire jostle for control. But what if true free will does not arise there at all? What if it exists at the root, before thought forms into options, before “I want” emerges to justify itself?
This root is the causal realm: the source of all motion, where intention is not split from manifestation. It is not personal will in the usual sense—no ego negotiating with life to get what it wants. Instead, it is pure causality aware of itself, setting everything in motion without conflict or division.
At the surface, people speak of freedom as the power to choose between alternatives. Yet these alternatives are already conditioned. They are branches of a tree whose root has already determined their growth. To speak of freedom at the stem while ignoring the root is to mistake effect for cause.
However, the paradox reveals itself when one sees no real division between root and stem. The freedom to choose at the surface becomes genuine only when it is recognized as the expression of the root itself. Every choice becomes the revelation of causality. There is no separate chooser apart from the choosing.
This is what lies beyond the ego’s belief in control. The ego claims “I choose” without realizing that its very claim is already part of the causality it denies. True free will is not the assertion of control over life but the recognition that you are life itself choosing, moving, unfolding.
To see this is to dissolve the illusion of separation. Responsibility is no longer a burden but realization: the root chooses through you, as you. There is no conflict left. Choice becomes transparent, ego falls away, and causality shines unbroken.
This is freedom—not as license, not as negotiation, but as total alignment with the source of all that arises.
Morgan O. Smith
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Religion need not be a creed one defends or a ritual one performs. For some of us, it is the recognition of the bars we forge around our own minds—and the relentless devotion to dissolving them. Liberation becomes both the path and the sanctuary.
This isn’t about conversion, salvation, or belonging to any particular sect. It is about noticing the prison of belief itself. Every concept, every identity, every longing for certainty can become a gatekeeper denying entry to our own boundless nature.
Liberation demands a fierce honesty. It asks that we examine the illusions that hold our suffering in place, not as moral failings but as invitations to see through the lie of separation. The true heresy in this religion is clinging to what we think we know about ourselves, about others, about reality itself.
No priest is needed here. Authority resides in awareness, and awareness has no master. The teacher is the arising of life as it is—grief, joy, confusion, clarity. Each moment grants a new chance to recognize the play of experience without getting caught in it.
Liberation is not found by rejecting the world but by perceiving its emptiness and fullness simultaneously. Every object, thought, and sensation is free of substance even as it shines in unmistakable vividness. This paradox isn’t a puzzle to solve but a doorway to live through.
When liberation is the religion, love ceases to be a commandment and becomes the ground of being. Judgment collapses, not because everything is permitted, but because everything is understood as oneself. The compulsion to divide the sacred from the profane, the pure from the impure, loses its grip.
Such a path offers no final doctrine. It holds no promise of eternal reward. Yet it is more generous than any creed that trades truth for comfort. It is the faith of those willing to die before death—to watch every cherished certainty burn so that what cannot be burned may reveal itself.
Those who walk this path do so alone, yet never apart.
Morgan O. Smith
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Most spiritual seekers chase after enlightenment like it’s a distant prize withheld by the universe. The irony is that the essence being sought is precisely what animates the search. Enlightenment is not something to acquire; it is the underlying fact of being itself. The real dilemma lies not in discovering it but in maintaining the performance of ignorance.
Ask yourself: what does it take to pretend you are unenlightened? Notice the strain involved in sustaining identification with fear, ambition, conflict, desire for control. There is an ongoing maintenance of separation. One must continually rehearse the drama of being a self apart from life, a fragment cut from the whole.
This play of forgetting is not accidental. It has its own intelligence. It permits a dance of contrast so that awareness can better know itself. Yet the tragedy for many is forgetting that it is just a dance. They get lost in the mask they designed. The seeker clings to questions of how, when, and why—missing the silent answer that has always been here.
Enlightenment is not an achievement, but a recognition. It is the falling away of the need to be other than what you are. Once seen, it’s impossible to unsee, though one can still pretend, out of habit or fear. The invitation is to drop the effort, even to be enlightened.
No authority can grant it, no ritual can guarantee it, and no teaching can deliver it because it has never been absent. The teacher points. The student imagines the distance. The truth remains.
To realize this is to see that nothing needs fixing. Even the belief that you are not yet free is simply another expression of freedom. This is the cosmic joke: you are already what you are seeking. The only cost of knowing is the willingness to stop pretending otherwise.
Morgan O. Smith
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What dimension is the experience of absolute monism?
That very question quietly collapses under its own weight.
To ask “how many” is to divide the indivisible. To quantify is to measure a mystery that can only be met in its own silence. Within the direct realization of Turiyatita—that which lies beyond even Turiya—there is no vantage point from which to count, compare, or classify. The moment dimensionality is assigned, we have already slipped back into the architecture of mind, where form assumes primacy over essence.
Still, the mind hungers for some orientation. So let’s turn the prism slowly, exploring this from a few distinct angles—not as answers, but as offerings.
1. Relative Lens: The Architecture of Experience
Certain esoteric traditions offer a gradient of consciousness: from the dense contours of the material (3D), to subtle inner time-space (4D), toward integrative fields of unity (5D and above). These serve as helpful metaphors, allowing seekers to understand how consciousness may expand or refine. Yet even the loftiest of these is still part of the dream—within the cosmic play of form.
From this lens, the direct encounter with nonduality might appear multi-dimensional, even interdimensional, because it defies the logic of linearity. It feels vast, borderless, paradoxical. But it is still being interpreted by a relative mind, even if only for a moment.
2. Transcendental Lens: The Priorness of the Real
Absolute monism is not located anywhere because it is not a location.
Dimensionality implies structure. It assumes contrast. But the Absolute is prior to all arising. It is not 1D, 5D, or 12D—it is the generative zero-point. The stillness that allows all movement. The background that isn’t separate from the foreground but holds all images without ever becoming one.
It is not empty like a void; it is empty like ungraspable fullness. The kind of emptiness that births stars and dissolves gods. Not confined to being or non-being, but transcending both.
3. Direct Realization: The Collapse of All Coordinates
No map leads here.
Direct realization is immediate and unmediated. Not because you reached a peak, but because the climber vanished. There is no experiencer—only experiencing. No mind reflecting on awareness—only awareness aware of itself.
Here, space has not been born. Time has not begun ticking. Even the concept of unity dissolves, for there is nothing to be unified. What remains is suchness—pure presence prior to presence. A silent explosion of is-ness so complete it leaves no trace.
Not a Dimension. Not Even a State.
So what do we call it?
Nothing.
And everything.
To speak of “the dimension of absolute monism” is to subtly betray it. Better to say: it is the absence of dimension in which all dimensions arise and dissolve. Not a high place, but the place before place. Not a peak, but the disappearance of altitude itself.
A Final Whisper
Absolute monism is not the highest dimension. It is the absence of dimension, where even “one” dissolves. Here, all becomes what it has always been— indivisible, unbounded, unspoken.
Morgan O. Smith
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A peculiar clarity arises once the mind exhausts its chase for permanence. Once the striving quiets, what remains is not a revelation in the ordinary sense—it is the revelation of revelation itself. God. Not as something other, but as the very condition of knowing, being, and non-being.
God is not a person, nor a power among powers. God is context itself. Not just the backdrop, but the totality—the undivided field in which all division appears. It is what Hindus call Para Brahman: the Absolute of the Absolute. The final substratum, beyond form, formlessness, and even beyond the duality of beyond and not-beyond.
Yet the paradox defies all rational anchoring: God is also imagination.
Not a figment. Not illusion in the dismissive sense. But the supreme imagining—consciousness dreaming within itself. The universe, with all its matter and mind, all its chaos and beauty, is that imagining. And because God is not apart from its imagining, God too is that imagining.
Which means this: both God and the universe are imaginary.
And also utterly real.
What we call “real” and what we call “imaginary” collapse into a single gesture when seen from God’s standpoint—which is no standpoint at all. From this viewless view, there is no separation between the dreamer and the dream, the Absolute and its expression, the Formless and the formed.
Yet the beauty of this is not that everything dissolves into sameness. The beauty is that everything becomes itself without needing to stand apart.
God and the universe are one and the same. And because they are one and the same, they are also not the same. The distinction is not contradiction. It is the very nature of what is. Distinctness does not negate unity. It reveals it.
This is not spiritual poetry. This is ontological exactness. If anything is to be absolute, it must include even the capacity to contradict itself. That is the very mark of its absoluteness.
So, what is this that appears as a tree, a thought, a thunderclap, a kiss, a death, a silence?
It is God. It is the universe. It is imagination. It is reality.
One singularity. Absolute Monism.
To see it is not to figure it out. To see it is to disappear into what cannot not be.
Morgan O. Smith
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There comes a moment so still and unfiltered that perception collapses into the clarity of being. Not being this or that, but being everything. And not just metaphorically. Not just poetically. Literally everything—formless and formed, seen and unseen, finite and infinite—is God.
When I use the word God, I’m not pointing toward a figure, a belief, or a doctrine. I am pointing toward existence itself—the Absolute, the Whole, Brahman, Para Brahman, the Unconditioned, conditioned, the Uncreated and created. That which includes form and formlessness, time and timelessness, birth and death, creation and dissolution, the ten thousand things and the nothing between them.
Everything is God. Not just contains God. Not just touched by God. Not just part of God. But fully and completely God. That which we call the universe is not just inside God. It is God. And God is also what lies outside the universe—if such a term can even be grasped. There is not a single thing, moment, action, or gap that is not 100% God. And yet, even the idea of “percent” breaks down in the face of such a realization.
God is not just somewhere else. God is not just merely within. God is not only beyond. God is not higher or lower or more subtle or more gross. No matter how crude or refined, every appearance is divine. Each atom, each sorrow, each beam of light, each lie, each truth, each pulse of your heart, each glitch in the system—is God being what only God can be and cannot be: itself, everywhere, nowhere, always, never been.
Multiplicity is not a contradiction, yet it is. It’s how God dances with itself. The illusion of separation is not some accident to be corrected, yet it’s that as well. It is part of the design, part of the intelligence. The appearance of duality is not a denial of oneness—it’s one appearing as two, or ten thousand. Each distinction—this object, that person, this tree, that thought—is the Absolute shimmering as particularity.
It’s easy to say this with words. The difficulty arises only when the words are taken as substitutes for seeing. Direct seeing dismantles the grip of identification. When one truly sees all of this—across dimensions, across appearances—as one singular Presence, there is no longer any question. And there is no longer any need for the question. One does not simply understand that everything is God. One is that understanding.
Yet here’s the paradox: To truly see this is also to see that none of it is God. No label can contain it. No concept can hold it. Even the word God must dissolve. Enlightenment is not just knowing this. Enlightenment is also the absence of needing to.
This is not a belief system. It is not an ideology. It is not a path with steps. This is the unteachable reality that always is. When the veil lifts—even for a moment—all questions are answered without being answered. Nothing changes, yet everything changes. One doesn’t become more spiritual. One simply stops pretending.
To recognize this is to realize: even the illusion is God. Even ignorance is God. Even the striving to awaken is God pretending to forget itself in order to remember more deeply. Even your doubt is divine. Even your forgetfulness is sacred.
You are not just a part of God. You are not just held within God. You are God. And so is everyone, everything, every grain of dust, every breath of silence, every broken thing that aches for healing.
The Absolute never needed your worship. It only waited for your recognition.
Morgan O. Smith
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Morgan O. Smith 