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Contemplative fieldnotes: Last night I dreamt I was atop Mt. Snowdon, the wind howling as I looked across. Singing a yogic song. Strange thing in dreams, if you turn towards the aesthetic quality of stillness amid chaos, the chaos collapses. Something about symbolism in there.
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Talented meditators can do that sort of stuff basically on demand at any time they fancy. Curious that we accept stratification of capacity in almost everything but people get weird when you suggest they’re not as awake as a genuine Yogin/Yogini. Funny.
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