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
The Absolute cannot be received by a vessel unprepared for its voltage. Consciousness, like circuitry, must be refined to hold the charge. The higher the threshold across the physical, emotional, and mental domains, the more precisely reality can transmit its undiluted essence through one’s being.
The body is not a hindrance to transcendence; it is the grounding rod. A nervous system conditioned through presence, breath, and embodiment becomes the bridge between the finite and the boundless. Without such refinement, the encounter with higher states risks distortion, overwhelm, or fragmentation. The Absolute demands structure, not as rigidity, but as integrity strong enough to remain open while containing the immeasurable.
Emotionally, the heart must learn to remain unguarded even in the storm. The capacity to feel everything without collapse is what allows compassion to expand beyond sentiment into universality. Each emotional breakthrough increases the voltage of love one can sustain without defence. To feel deeply without drowning is the silent mastery of awakened sensitivity.
Mentally, clarity becomes the crucible. The mind must learn to dissolve without disintegrating; to rest in stillness without forsaking discernment. Thought, when purified of obsession and identification, becomes transparent to the Real. Then language no longer imprisons truth but becomes its faint echo.
Those who cultivate balance across all thresholds do not chase transcendence; they embody it. They become the conduit through which the Absolute interprets itself, wordlessly, endlessly, with precision born of surrender.
Morgan O. Smith
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The universe doesn’t hide God; it is God hiding as the universe. Every atom, every dimension, every flicker of awareness is the divine expressing itself through the language of matter. The cosmic dance unfolds not as a performance for an audience, but as an intimate act of self-revelation. The observer is part of the choreography, never outside of it. What we call “physical” is simply the slowed vibration of the infinite, shaped by the senses into something tangible enough to touch.
Yet, we rarely see what is truly there. Our fixation on survival, food, shelter, sex, and comfort anchors perception to the most immediate layer of existence. This fixation creates the illusion that life is something we possess rather than something that is expressing itself through us. The divine becomes abstract because our gaze remains horizontal; we look at the world rather than through it.
Letting go does not require abandoning the world; it requires seeing through it. As the grip loosens, the solidity of reality begins to shimmer. Objects, forms, identities, and even the notion of “you” dissolve into the same field from which they arose. This is not annihilation; it is revelation. The disappearance of the self reveals the only thing that has ever been: the boundless presence that calls itself “I” through all beings.
Everything you have ever loved, feared, or sought is this single reality playing hide-and-seek within itself. Each experience, no matter how fleeting or mundane, is the divine pretending to forget so it can remember again through your eyes. When the game ends, seeker and sought disappear, and what remains is neither player nor play, but the unbroken wholeness that was never apart from itself.
Morgan O. Smith
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To say “God exists” is to affirm the ultimate. To say “God does not exist” is to deny the ultimate. Both affirmations and denials, however, are shaped by the mind’s insistence on certainty. The moment one tries to hold onto either pole, a paradox emerges.
When someone claims God exists, they project a reality beyond perception, yet they confine that reality to a category recognizable to human thought. When another claims God does not exist, they too impose a conclusion, binding the ineffable to the limits of negation. Both positions carry a strange truth and a strange error. Both dissolve the moment awareness sees through the duality of affirmation and denial.
Imagine truth as a horizon: from one angle, existence appears; from another, non-existence. Walk closer, and the horizon itself vanishes; it was never a line that could be grasped, but a function of perspective. God is not merely at the horizon but the condition through which horizon, perspective, and perceiver arise.
To say both are true is to honour that reality contains affirmation and negation. To say both are false is to point out that neither claim reaches the source. To say one is true and the other false is to remain in dualistic thought. To call them half-truths is to recognize their limitation yet still attempt to measure the immeasurable. To deny even a half-truth is to bow to silence.
The statement itself, that God exists and does not exist in all these paradoxical ways, becomes the closest gesture to truth. It is not the conclusion but the capacity to hold the contradictions without collapse that reveals God’s existence, not as a concept but as the unnamable presence behind every concept.
The paradox is not meant to be solved. It is meant to exhaust the mind until only awareness remains. What remains is not the proof of God, but the direct realization that the very effort to define or deny was always occurring within and as God.
Morgan O. Smith
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God is not found in the layers of personality, beliefs, or self-image. Those dissolve the moment you step out of the illusion of “me.” What remains when the scaffolding of identity crumbles is not absence, but presence, vast, unconditioned, indivisible.
The struggle for most seekers lies in clinging to the idea of a separate self. Every attachment to who you believe you are, your story, your role, your wounds, creates the illusion of separation from God. Yet God has never been apart from you. God is what has always been here, quietly holding even your attempt to define God.
When “you” disappear, nothing is lost. What is left is clarity so immediate that it cannot be explained, only lived. It is a recognition that existence itself has no centre and no boundary. Every breath, every sound, every sensation reveals itself as the movement of the One Reality, free of your commentary.
This realization is not a grand acquisition; it is the collapse of the idea that there was ever anyone to acquire it. The vanishing of the personal self exposes a truth so intimate that it cannot be possessed. It is not “your” truth, it is truth itself.
To awaken to this is to discover that God was never hidden. God is not the object of your search, but the space in which the search appears and disappears. The seeker dissolves, and what remains is the unbroken light of Being.
Morgan O. Smith
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If every effect has a cause, what room remains for the idea of “random”? Strip away the assumptions and peer into the structure of unfolding—what appears arbitrary may only be the limit of our perception, not the limit of reality.
What we call random is simply what we cannot trace. A roll of dice seems disorderly, but beneath it is a network of variables: velocity, angle, friction, momentum, density of the table, even micro-vibrations in the air. Were we to measure all these with precision, we would predict the outcome every time. The surprise we feel isn’t due to chaos, but to ignorance.
This is not about turning life into a mechanical calculation. Quite the opposite. It’s about bowing to a deeper intelligence that is so vast, so precise, it weaves galaxies from the quantum breath of atoms. When nothing is out of place, even disorder is part of a symmetry too subtle for the linear mind to grasp.
Events that seem unexplainable—miracles, tragedies, synchronicities—often get dumped into the “random” pile because they defy our narratives. Yet each thread is embedded in a continuum of unfolding, stretching far beyond memory, culture, or even lifetime.
To say life is random is to deny the sacred choreography of emergence. Every moment is connected, not as dominoes collapsing mindlessly, but as a living mandala of causes so intricately interlaced they cannot be undone or simplified.
When one begins to see this—really see it—the need to explain, justify, or control begins to fall away. What replaces it is not fatalism, but participation. There is no randomness, only the undetected curvature of deeper causality. And when that is recognized, trust becomes more than a spiritual concept. It becomes a way of being.
Morgan O. Smith
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Enlightenment isn’t a collection of vivid memories. It isn’t a library of altered states or a gallery of peak experiences pinned to the walls of time. Enlightenment, in its truest sense, is what remains when all those moments pass. It is not recalled—it is present.
A spiritually enlightened being doesn’t describe what happened—they speak from what is. Their language may touch on form, but it arises from formlessness. It isn’t commentary on a past event; it is the echo of what is silently alive in that moment. Words are merely the condensation of what remains wordless within them.
Contrast this with the one who has had many spiritually enlightening experiences. There is often great sincerity, beauty, and wisdom in their sharing. But listen closely: their narrative carries timestamps. “This is what I saw… what I felt… what I realized…” There’s a distance, however subtle. A witness telling you what the moon looked like—rather than being the moon, shining right now, regardless of who’s watching.
This difference isn’t about hierarchy. One isn’t better, holier, or more awakened than the other. But there’s a distinct quality when realization is not merely visited, but abided in. When the identity that would lay claim to an experience has dissolved entirely.
Here’s the paradox: a being can be spiritually enlightened without ever having what we label as a “spiritual experience.” No blissful union, no white light, no serpents of energy climbing the spine. Their clarity is not the aftermath of an event—it is the absence of confusion. No fireworks. Just light.
They may speak little. Or not at all. There is no need to convince, convert, or collect followers. They are not on a path—they are the ground from which all paths appear.
On the other hand, a person with many enlightening experiences can describe with breathtaking poetry the landscapes of the soul. But unless those experiences have dissolved the one who experienced them, the self remains—refined perhaps, but still separate.
True awakening isn’t an experience you remember. It’s the end of the one who remembers.
This is why the most profound truths often arrive without announcement. A falling away, not an acquiring. A silent recognition that this—yes, this—is what always was. And suddenly, the need for experience evaporates. Presence alone becomes sufficient.
Morgan O. Smith
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Want to understand the mind of God? Think of two opposites, accept those two opposites, become the two opposites, go beyond both, erase both, yet include. Even then, it won’t be understood.
Fire and water seem to be opposites. Yet steam arises at their meeting point—a form that is neither purely one nor the other, yet depends on both entirely. This is not the cancellation of difference but its transformation. What appears is both, neither, and something beyond classification.
To become opposites means allowing yourself to be fierce and gentle, clear and confused, bound and free, without settling on any of these as the final truth. It is to hold them fully, see their mutual necessity, and recognize that their apparent contradiction points to something that includes, exceeds, and dissolves them without denying them.
Human longing for comprehension seeks the safety of closure—a single statement that ends all questioning. Yet the source of all perspectives cannot be bound by any one of them. Every claim about it is true, false, and everything in between.
Stepping into the space where opposites remain distinct yet inseparable invites a new kind of seeing. Certainty and doubt illuminate each other. Every perspective holds a partial truth, a partial untruth, and a silent remainder that escapes both.
Silence here is not mere emptiness but a fullness that holds every possibility without settling on any. Words illuminate and obscure in the same breath. Every statement unveils something while hiding something else. Language does not capture what is beyond it but points, imperfectly, toward what cannot be bound.
This is not a teaching about removing opposites so they disappear into sameness. It is about becoming vast enough to hold their full tension, to see that going beyond them does not reject them but includes them in a larger whole. The mind of God is not merely where opposites cease to matter but where their interplay, necessity, and transcendence are equally revealed.
Here, everything can be affirmed, denied, and moved beyond at once. Nothing is excluded. Nothing stands alone.
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
Get Your Free Copy of My Book, Bodhi in the Brain!
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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The Subtle Divide Between Truth and Interpretation
Knowing there’s a God is not a religious concept; believing in a God is. One is a recognition—silent, direct, and intimate. The other is a construct—layered with doctrines, culture, and inherited symbols.
What is known requires no belief. It reveals itself without needing validation, much like light doesn’t require agreement to be seen. The moment belief arises, there is already a distance. A gap. A reaching toward what seems separate.
Belief is an echo of knowing, distorted by time, language, and fear. It builds shrines to certainty where awe once stood unguarded. It memorizes truths that once moved freely through silence. And often, it turns the unknowable into a caricature—a God of preferences, sides, and punishments.
Knowing is not about having answers. It’s the crumbling of the question. It doesn’t declare “There is a God.” It dissolves the very boundary between the knower and what is known. There is no longer a subject seeking an object. Only the raw immediacy of Being aware of itself.
Those who know are rarely interested in convincing others. Those who believe often are.
The danger isn’t belief itself—it’s mistaking belief for truth. Truth, when known, renders belief obsolete. It doesn’t divide, it doesn’t declare superiority—it simply is.
To know is to surrender the need for interpretation. To believe is often to defend the interpretation, even at the cost of truth.
And yet, belief can serve as a bridge. A necessary illusion for those not yet ready to let go of the comfort of form. But let it be a bridge, not a home.
Morgan O. Smith
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Morgan O. Smith 