To paraphrase Carl Sagan: The universe is a place bigger than anyone has ever imagined. If we were the sole occupants, it would be an awful waste of space. Mindful of the duality in all things (and the artificial separations that duality enforces), it follows that within such vastness there are bound to be voids; voids as large as the human heart, and as small as a black hole. The only thing that makes those voids bearable is each other. That means us; each slice of the god-pie, each fragment of God that wears skin and feels things. The same skin that allows us our unique experiences of reality and the experience of each other is the very thing that keeps us apart. That separation is arbitrary and need not be the impediment we make it out to be. We are no farther away from one another than we are from God -- and we are God.

It can feel, even with the populace this tiny little dust mote supports, that we are alone in this experience. Each of us is unique, distinct and separate; yet, within that separation, we are all a part of the same unified whole. Perhaps that is why we struggle for money, recognition, solace in the arms of many (or one). Perhaps that is why it seems that the more one feels towards another, especially if one feels love -- the less there seems to be of that other. There simply isn't enough of that one to go around.

But how is that possible, if we are the Divine Infinite made manifest? Why do we beg for more of what we already have in front of us, as if it were not enough? When we unite with another being, we tend to forget, for a time, all of the distractions that keep us running after whatever we dangle in front of ourselves. When we unite with another, we feel at home. Peaceful. Contented. Immense. Why, then, do we create a dearth of that which we find most fulfilling? So that we can distract ourselves with the chasing of it? Or is it simply because if we were to remember that we're all One, we'd know that there is always and ever enough of those we love to go around?

To borrow from Socrates, there is no one real chair; only the concept of ``chair.'' There is no one way in which to be united; there is only Unity. What we feel when united with another temporal entity is an example of the unitive experience, the unity of returning from whence we came. The unity of being god, of remembering what it's like to feel without judging the feeling.

Sometimes I feel like a tentacle, sent forth to experience my own small lifetime's worth of stuff; a direct data feed to God. Big deal. Sometimes I realize the significance of my own unique, magnificent, exclusive experience of this reality and I feel immense. In a dualistic universe, with everything needing its counterpart (the thing which it is not in order to experience what is), I cannot be surprised that I feel both of these things. I am capable of experiencing more than I am currently capable of comprehending. That daunts me. It leaves me terrified that I shall never be able to realize my own comprehension potential, and ebullient that I shall evolve into my grand capacity to comprehend. United with another, I am reminded of unity -- not of the other being, nor of my self. I know, in those moments, that I am sufficient; I know that any shortage I might experience is no more than damning evidence of the limitless bounty I refuse to permit myself.

With Unity comes Solitude. Solitude is not the condition of being physically alone. Solitude is the state in which both my fear of what I can do and my joy in knowing I can do things are vying for preeminence. From this ordered chaos, this raw material, comes the fabric from which I weave my experience. The only divine plan is that there is no divine plan. This being so, and I shall assume it is, then I cannot possibly err; errors occur only when a script or target has been missed. If there is no form, then I cannot trespass against it. That means I'm ``right'' all of the time. Being right all the time is not an experience of freedom. It does not necessarily liberate me. It makes me fully responsible for all I create, all I think, all that I will into being. Therein lies true freedom, and I'm back to being daunted.

In the daunting void, I have others to make the emptiness bearable. I have other slices of god to remind me that I'm never farther away from anything than a touch, a word, a thought. The existence of others forces me into the solitude of skin and grants me the reminders of unity. I am a bigger place than I had ever imagined; I can no longer entertain the notion of minimizing my immensity by believing that I am the only thing in it. That, indeed, would be a waste of space.

At the time this article was first released, Deborah Addington was a candidate in CNR's ordination program. She was ordained in September of 2002.