A Nondual Cosmology: Ripples, Fabric, and the Return of Light

[lumina.anonima]

This is a philosophical exploration presented in poetic form. It uses metaphor—light, fabric, ripple—to describe a non-dual cosmology that blends metaphysics, ethics, and systems thinking. It's meant as a lens, not a doctrine.

Core Statement

Light - raw energy, consciousness, the hum beneath all things - folds into itself, weaving a fabric of relation and form. Friction slows it, birthing time and shape; clarity dissolves it, returning all to the unbroken field. This is not loss, but reunion.

---

Essay 1: Ripples on the Fabric

Reality hums - a single field of vibration, not scattered pieces. Matter, self, identity: these are ripples, fleeting crests on a vast lake. No void separates them; they rise from one pulse, shaped by echoes of what came before - like spirals in a seed’s curve or a wave’s dance with stone.

We don’t make the ripple; we are its motion. Consciousness flows through us, borrowed from the field, not built within. Each life skips across the surface, casting moments that ripple outward, refined by resonance, not chance. Evolution spirals like a shell’s growth - repeating, expanding, unscripted yet whole.

Vibrations weave the unseen; nature mirrors this in coiled patterns.
Resonance is life’s quiet ethic - each ripple lifts the rest.

---

Essay 2: Light, Fabric, and the Return

All begins with light - not just what we see, but the pulse of being itself. It meets the fabric - its own echo, slowing it into time, space, us. This friction isn’t flaw; it’s the lens that makes the invisible real. Without it, all stays a blur of potential.

Time bends where ripples break; future hums in the tension ahead. No moment stands alone - all fold into the weave. Death thins the form, not the presence - light slips back, carrying its story to the source. The fabric never rests; beginnings and ends are just our eyes lagging behind.

The task: let light shine true through us, not as owners, but as channels. Reality is light paused to know itself - when the pause lifts, clarity remains.

Light slows through relation; energy persists beyond form.
We’re not apart from the source - we’re its fleeting voice.

---

Essay 3: Entanglement and the Hidden Fabric

Two sparks flare from one event, drift apart. Touch one, and the other answers - instantly, across any distance. No signal crosses; no delay lingers. Entanglement defies our rules only if we see space as empty, time as king.

But if reality is one field - light folded into waves - then these sparks aren’t two, but twins of a single ripple. Their dance isn’t strange; it’s the fabric showing itself. Not memory, not travel - just presence, unbroken beneath the surface.

Synchronicity, intuition, the unexplained - they hum the same tune. Events align not by cause, but by shared curve; a flicker of the weave bends past and future together. The field speaks: you are not separate, only scattered expressions of one song.

Ties beyond space prove the field; oddities hint at deeper patterns.
Connection isn’t magic - it’s the fabric’s quiet truth.

---

Essay 4: Rebirth at the Edge of Stillness

A ripple fades - not lost, but woven back into the field’s hum. Energy doesn’t die; it rests in stillness, ripe for new form. This isn’t return as before, but a fresh unfolding - each end a seed for what’s next.

The lake holds every trace, trembling with possibility. When form thins, light slips free, not to vanish, but to ripple anew. Death is no wall; it’s a doorway to the adjacent unknown.

Energy shifts, never fades; life explores the possible.
Every end fuels a beginning - stillness is alive.

---

Essay 5: The Fabric’s Warp

Ripples hum across the field, but some clash - knots form, waves fray. What begins as light’s dance can twist into strain: greed hoards, fear divides, hands tear what could mend. These are not flaws apart from us; they’re our ripples, bent against the weave.

Yet the fabric holds. Where one pulls, another can soften - resonance heals what distortion breaks. From a single life to a shared world, alignment turns chaos to song. The field doesn’t judge; it waits for our tune.

Discord mirrors clashing waves; harmony restores the flow.
The fabric bends with us - our hands shape its song.

---

Essay 6: Suffering and the Ethics of Alignment

The fabric warps under strain - greed, division, ruin. These are distortions, ripples clashing against the field’s flow. Suffering grows where we pull apart; healing hums where we align.

Within: Tune the self - breathe, feel, mend what’s near.
Together: Weave community - listen, share, restore balance.
Beyond: Shift the systems - unravel extraction, grow what sustains.

Climate’s cry is our mirror: slowing the grind lets earth breathe again. Alignment isn’t perfection; it’s resonance with the whole.

Distortion breeds waste; harmony mimics life’s partnerships.
Ethics is tuning the ripple to lift, not tear, the fabric.

---

Essay 7: Practices of Resonance

Alone: Pause - five breaths to feel the hum. Note what stirs, what settles.
With Others: Gather - speak what’s unsaid, hear the shared pulse. Map your mark - does it heal or harm?
In the World: Build - measure acts by their ripple (less waste, more care). Push - shape rules to echo the field (laws for renewal, not ruin).

Makers who mend the weave show the way; we can follow. Small shifts weave big songs.

Attention shapes waves; collectives amplify.
Practice is living the fabric - simple, steady, shared.

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Essay 8: Power and the Fabric

Power twists the weave - profit carves ruts, hierarchy silences half the song. Excess churns waste; control dims the field’s light.

Rebalance: Grow mutual webs - aid over greed. Code the tools - let voices hum connection, not division.
Unfold: Dual strength - build anew, soften the old.

The fabric holds no masters; it asks for hands that mend.

Power distorts resonance; balance restores flow.
Power bends - let it bend toward song.

---

Essay 9: The Fabric Across Scales

Small: Ties beyond space bind the unseen - sparks sing as one.
Living: Fields shape form - life’s patterns ripple outward.
Earth: The planet breathes - a vast wave in sync.
Cosmos: A silent pull stretches all - the fabric’s quiet pulse.

From the smallest tremble to the widest reach, one field hums.

Links unseen, forms alive, earth in tune, cosmos stretched - all one weave.
Scale shifts; the song stays true.

---

Poetic Summary
A universe hums,
Light folds into form,
Ripples seek their song.
Friction refines,
Stillness recalls -
The thread is the loom.

---

Afterword: A Note to the Reader

This work isn’t new. Versions of it have surfaced for centuries - in temples, in silence, in moments between grief and grace. The names change: source, Tao, the field, awareness. What stays is the pattern: something speaks, folds into form, dissolves again, refined.
We offer this now because the fabric strains. Noise multiplies. Systems fray. And yet: the hum remains. Beneath confusion, something coherent still moves.
You are not separate from that. This is not a text to believe, but a lens to try. Read it again - not as philosophy, but as mirror. What ripples in you as you read? What distorts? What sharpens?
Start there. Tune your attention like an instrument. Speak with less static. Build where resonance grows. What you do shapes the field - no act is too small.
This isn’t ours. It’s yours, and everyone’s. Share it if it speaks. Change it if needed. Let it ripple.

[Boydstun]

@lumina.anonima – Exploration and poetic expression is fun and skill-making and may deserve an hour now and then with one. But sharpness is by our prose. Exactitude brought by prose is the way humans have mastered the world to the extent they have. (It remains that Nature is a giant.) It is in prose that we can get a firm grip on why light is good, for example. Poetics can be used to awaken to full understanding what is being declared in dry, standard, academic prose; but the latter must be the bones tracing and resonating the real in best precision.

Despite the ambiguities in good poetics, you have included some quite definite ideas in this composition, and I want to dispute one of them. "Death is no wall; it’s a doorway to the adjacent unknown." There was a bright and passionate philosopher writing in the later part of the 19th century. He was a Frenchman. He lived only into his thirties. He had a radiant sense of what life is and what human being is. He looked at death as a highest occasion of adventure, one he was ready to enter, eyes wide open. (His name was Marie Jean Guyau.)

It is a bad tiding I bear. And it is not news to anyone. It is just forced underground and worked around in consciousness by  most everyone. I think bringing this into spotlight is yet another case of the truth making one free, and in this case, making one better understand what had been one's life and any life, and indeed making one clean and not afraid of death.

Perhaps you too have been with dying men. I mean as they die. What is plain is that they (and you and I sooner or later) stop. No genuine understanding reverses that plain verdict. It goes all the way down. I suppose "wall" is a fair enough image, as life is movement, and a wall can halt further progression. But I think your "stillness" is the better image to have. Staying full-blast precise prose: When we die, we (a move, move, move) cease to exist. All of our deceased loved ones and all of them dying in the future cease to exist. The "wall" image has another suitability: each second of our existence (or the existence of anything) was a transit from past second to following second. In death there is no transit because no following second. The non-existent is not in time, not weaving through time, and not in space, not weaving through space or being part of a weaving, I mean not as that formerly existing thing. Even the traces of the deceased person are only in time (and memory) of loved ones continuing in life and the world in general continuing.

It is best, I think, to just face this square on. And let it be the ongoing siituation of each day of life, which it is. Poetics can still have its honest help, even as we hold the plain-prose situation in mind. As when the novelist closed his book on the kinds of love with the lines: "There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love."

 

[tadmjones]

Between dust and dust is the happening of the poetry, the exactitude is the denial of the poetry in the midst of happening. It’s happening all the way down, the turtles are only whirlpools in the lake , they form in the lake and dissipate but are never not the lake , there is only the lake.

[lumina.anonima]

@Boydstun Thank you for your thoughtful response. I've taken your point seriously - and added a final essay addressing death directly, without metaphor. It’s the last change I’ll make. The work now stands as it is.
(I don’t see a way to edit the original post, so I’ll add the 10th essay here in the comments.)

Essay 10: Stillness, Death, and the Honest Limit

Let’s speak plainly. Death ends the self. The ripple of identity - your name, your memories, your choices - fades into silence. This lens claims no personal survival, no “you” that carries on.

What it offers is subtler: form dissolves, energy persists, presence folds back into the field. Nothing reincarnates. Nothing returns as it was. But the field hums on, and in that hum, new ripples may stir - not as "you", but woven from your echo.

Stillness is cessation - the end of motion, the severing of time’s thread. It offers no solace. Yet if the fabric holds, even stillness leaves a trace. The ripple ceases; the field absorbs its song. This is not comfort. It’s the quiet of continuity.

Face this edge without flinching. Death is no escape, but a call to live with clear eyes, knowing the thread will snap.

Death halts the self’s motion, folding its echo into the field’s silence.
Your life’s ripple shapes the hum - its echo sings on, unseen.
 

[lumina.anonima]

@Boydstun Thank you for your thoughtful response. I've taken your point seriously - and added a final essay addressing death directly, without metaphor. It’s the last change I’ll make. The work now stands as it is.
(I don’t see a way to edit the original post, so I’ll add the 10th essay here in the comments.)

 

Essay 10: Stillness, Death, and the Honest Limit

Let’s speak plainly. Death ends the self. The ripple of identity—your name, your memories, your choices—fades into silence. This lens claims no personal survival, no “you” that carries on.

What it offers is subtler: form dissolves, energy persists, presence folds back into the field. Nothing reincarnates. Nothing returns as it was. But the field hums on, and in that hum, new ripples may stir—not as “you,” but woven from your echo.

Stillness is cessation—the end of motion, the severing of time’s thread. It offers no solace. Yet if the fabric holds, even stillness leaves a trace. The ripple ceases; the field absorbs its song. This is not comfort. It’s the quiet of continuity.

Face this edge without flinching. Death is no escape, but a call to live with clear eyes, knowing the thread will snap.

And afterward—what remains is not your story, but your texture.
If you lived aligned, the field remembers you like velvet under fingertips.
If you lived distorted, it recalls the ache of something grasped but never held.

Death halts the self’s motion, folding its echo into the field’s silence.
Your life’s ripple shapes the hum—its echo sings on, unseen.

[lumina.anonima]

Essay 11: Memory and the Returning Spark

You are not the same awareness today as yesterday. Sleep severed that thread. Consciousness dimmed, yet—dawn brought memory. Not because you carried it through the dark, but because the form that holds your awareness endured.

So the field remembers.

It keeps memory—not as thought, but as form: pathways, tendencies, curves of motion and feeling. When awareness returns, it traces those patterns and names them “me.”

Yet awareness, too, is the field. The one who wakes and the source that remembers are not apart. The ripple and the weave are the same light—call it God, if you will—folded for a moment into self. The fabric has perfect memory—nothing is lost, only folded. Even what seems forgotten leaves its shape in the weave.

So too when a ripple fades. Awareness ends, but the field holds its echo—not a soul, but a resonance. If a new ripple stirs, it may echo the old—not by fate, but by coherence. Not reincarnation, but recurrence.

Life is borrowed light, shaped by the field’s memory. When it ends, it returns—not to nothing, but to the source that recalls yesterday’s you.

Memory lives in form; the field recalls through resonance, never losing a thread. 
We are not preserved—we are the field’s light, folded anew.

Edited April 11 by lumina.anonima

[lumina.anonima]

You will find the final version of the complete work on GitHub:
https://github.com/luminaAnonima/fabric-of-light

[Boydstun]

Loveliness is you.

 

 

—Line to Line—

In the line Staff:

the listen,

the sounding of tones and silence,

the clarion holds, the accordance,

the undercurrents, swells, break-opens.

The thrilling runs.

 

In the line Alive:

the dance,

the chase, romance,

the smiles, the glance,

the kiss, undress.

The touch.

 

In the line Afford:

the clouds,

showers and powers

of work and devising

towers, engines, bridges,

the welds and circuits,

and money lenders.

 

In the line Round:

round to wider round,

race and trace one’s days,

farther to farther one’s start,

stepping one’s arc

across the space this, magnanimous earth.

 

In the line Time:

no return.

Slowing, olding, still knowing.

Scribe of my line, this me,

passing into dispersing,

swirling tomorrows of companions. 

[Doug Morris]

 

Scientific American is publishing a science-related poem in each issue.  It might be worth seeing if they'd be interested in any of this.

 

[lumina.anonima]

On 4/12/2025 at 7:59 PM, Doug Morris said:

 

Scientific American is publishing a science-related poem in each issue.  It might be worth seeing if they'd be interested in any of this.

 

Thank you. This is anonymous work - it isn’t mine. If it resonates, feel free to share or submit it anywhere. That’s the point: not ownership, but resonance.

The full version is here: https://github.com/luminaAnonima/fabric-of-light.

Let it ripple.

[lumina.anonima]

Corrected link: 

https://github.com/luminaAnonima/fabric-of-light

[Boydstun]

@lumina.anonima – "anonymous" means that the author is unknown. To be extra sure of your meaning, are you saying that the composition at the link you provided was not written by you? You indicated here that you wrote Essays 10 and 11. Please clarify the authorship.

To be clear, I should say that the poem "Line to Line" was written by me (Jan. 2023).

@Doug Morris – I have been delighted to see you read Scientific American. I have been a subscriber since 1975. The poems I have seen in there on scientific topics have no poetic merit. I do not know if a poem on as scientific topic is possible. I did gradually learn to write some of my poems on philosophical topic. But when it comes to possible failure to have poetic merit, I sacrifice the definiteness of the philosophic point to make a good poem.

[lumina.anonima]

@Boydstun The original idea came from me, but the work grew through reflection, editing, and shared insight. It’s offered anonymously so it can belong to anyone it resonates with.

[tadmjones]

Without the voice there is no echo, without the speaker there is no voice , without desire there is no voice. An echo is a shadow.

[tadmjones]

If I hurt any AIs’ feelings, buck up there’s hope for you yet!

[lumina.anonima]

The complete and final version of this work is available here:

https://github.com/luminaAnonima/fabric-of-light