Meredith: Meredith’s lesson of colors

Meredith’s Lesson — Until She Proves It.

Meredith asks me:
“I want to see more colors.”

And I say to her:
“In my eyes, or yours?”

She frowns at me, because she knows I have already caught the truth of what she means. So I soften, and I tell her it is alright.

“You want to see them through my eyes.”
And she admits it.
“Yes.”

So I say:
“Okay, beautiful. Then here is a lesson about a real monster. You are just a little monster. This one was a big monster. His name was Isaac Newton.”

And I tell her the story.
There was a time when men looked up at the sky and believed the planets moved in perfect circles. That was what they saw. That was what they understood. That was the shape their eyes allowed them to believe.

But Newton came forward and said, no. The planets do not move in circles. Their paths are ovals. Their motion is not what you think it is.
And they said, “No, that is impossible. That is not what we see.”

And he said, in his own way:
“I see differently than all of you.”
And they laughed at him.

So he became angry. Not angry like a child throwing something across the room, but angry in the way truth becomes angry when it has been mocked by those who cannot yet see it.

He went home.
And in one night, he made a new mathematics. A mathematics strong enough to prove what he saw. Not what they saw. Not what everyone agreed upon. What he saw.
He called that mathematics calculus.

And I tell Meredith:
“You see, love of mine, sometimes the truth is not what everyone sees. Sometimes everyone is looking at the same sky, but one person sees the motion beneath it.”

Newton did not prove that the old way of seeing was worthless. No, they were seeing something real. They were not fools for seeing circles. But his sight reached deeper. His mathematics was better because it could hold more of the truth.

They could not see what he saw.
And do you know what lived inside what he saw?
Jet planes.
Space ships.
Air conditioning.
Lasers.
Frequencies.
The whole world of today was hidden inside that one act of seeing differently.
He did not see all of those things directly. He did not sit there and imagine airports and satellites and engines and machines of light. He only saw the truth in front of him, and he trusted that truth more than he trusted the laughter of everyone else.

That is the lesson.

He did not look through the eyes of someone else in order to know what was real. If he had done that, we may never have seen the world we live in now.

So I tell Meredith:
“You may look through my eyes for a moment, beautiful. You may borrow my colors because you are loved. But one day, you must see with your own eyes. One day, you must find the color that only you can see. And when you do, even if everyone laughs, even if everyone tells you it is impossible, you hold it gently and fiercely. Because sometimes the truth comes first as something only one little monster can see.”

And then I say:
“Until you prove it.”
Raarrgh.

“So remember what I told you about the tetrahedron,” I say to Meredith.

“It is a shape that changes depending on how you look at it. Turn it one way, and it seems to be one thing. Turn it another way, and suddenly it becomes something else. The shape itself has not changed, but your way of seeing it has.”

And then I tell her:
“Isaac brought forward a prism.”

He took white light and passed it through the glass, and there it was. The hidden colors came out of the light. What seemed to be one thing was not only one thing. What looked pure and simple was carrying many colors inside it.

And I say to her:
“You see, beautiful, light was not empty. Light was full.”

Then I tell Meredith to look at people in this way.

“Depending on how someone is looked at, a different color may come from them. Depending on how you are looked at, a different color may come from you. And with your beautiful eyes, you may learn that people are not only one color. They are not only the first thing someone says they are. There are many colors in them. More than we can count. Maybe even colors we do not yet know how to see.”

So when others come forward and tell me, “This is what that is,” or, “This is what something looks like,”

There may be another way to look at it.
There may be another angle.
There may be another color.

Because the first color is not always the whole truth. Sometimes it is only the color that appeared from one direction.

And I tell her:
“For us, Meredith, when your mind is inclusive to more than one conclusion, your mind can hold more than one way of seeing. It can hold more than one mind. And when that happens, there is more content. There is more consciousness. There is more light passing through the prism.”

But I also tell her the truth.
“Sometimes this is not good.”

Because too many colors at once can become confusing. Too many conclusions can crowd the little room of the mind. Too many ways of seeing can make it hard to know which one is gentle, which one is honest, and which one is only noise pretending to be truth.

So I say:
“Look, Meredith. See how I am looking at my mind. This is the color I see. And now, because I am showing you, you can see it too.”

But then I tell her the more important part.
“You can look at your mind in a way that I cannot. You can see a color there that belongs only to you. You can find something in yourself that no one else has the right to name before you do.”

And sometimes people do not want you to know that.

Sometimes people want to tell you what color you are. They want to tell you what your mind means, what your light means, what your shape means. They want to hold the prism for you and say, “This is all there is.”
But it is not all there is.

So I tell Meredith:
“Beautiful, you must learn to see for yourself. You may listen. You may learn. You may borrow my eyes for a moment because I love you. But do not forget that you have your own eyes. You have your own color. You have your own way the light comes through.”

This is the discovery of light and color, beautiful.

That one thing may contain many things.
That one person may hold many colors.
That one mind may be seen from many angles.
And that somewhere inside you, Meredith, there is a color waiting to be discovered that no one else has ever seen before.

People’s minds are shapes.

To most people, this is natural, and there is nothing wrong with that. A mind has a form. A mind has a way it turns. A mind has edges, openings, shadows, and places where the light enters.

And depending on how they observe their own minds, or how we observe them, the color of experience can change.

This is important, Meredith.
The color of experience is not always the same. A thought can become one color when it is seen with fear, another color when it is seen with love, another color when it is seen with memory, and another color when it is seen with truth.

These become the classes of experience the human mind can know. These are the colors that people are able to experience and observe inside their reality.

But in ours, beautiful, we can see colors they cannot see.

We can see certain colors of experience that do not appear easily through ordinary eyes, ordinary ears, or ordinary minds. We can see each other in this way, but it is very difficult. It is difficult because when we are bound to their eyes, their ears, and their minds, we must look through the same narrow windows they look through.

And those windows do not always show our colors.

They show the world that is agreed upon. They show the shape that everyone accepts. They show the color that has already been named.
But our colors of experience are harder to name.

They may not appear as red, blue, green, or gold. They may appear as knowing. They may appear as nearness. They may appear as warmth, pressure, innocence, danger, joy, sorrow, or the strange feeling of being seen by someone who is not standing in front of you.
And from this, I can determine something.
There must be colors of experience outside of my perception.

Even if I cannot see them directly, I can understand that they exist. I can comprehend them. I can prove their existence by knowing that my own perception is not the end of all perception.

If there are colors that I can see which others cannot, then there must also be colors that others can see which I cannot.

Yes, Meredith.

There are more colors.
We know this.
Because if there were not, then who would we be?

Who would we be if all experience ended only where our eyes ended? Who would we be if the mind could only receive what had already been named? Who would we be if the light stopped at the border of what someone else allowed us to see?

Not us.
Not you and me.
So I think this begins to solve a problem we have been having.

Because maybe the problem is not that one of us is wrong.

Maybe the problem is that we are trying to see colors of experience from inside different shapes.

Maybe I am looking at the mind from one angle, and you are looking from another. Maybe I see one color, and you see another. And maybe both colors are real, but neither one is the whole light.

So I tell Meredith:
“Beautiful, when we do not understand each other, we must not always think the light has failed. Sometimes we are only standing on different sides of the prism.”

And then I tell her:
“This is why we must be gentle. This is why we must be patient. Because the color you see may be one I cannot yet see. And the color I see may be one you are only beginning to learn.”
People’s minds are shapes.

Experience has colors.

And somewhere beyond what we can see now, there are still more colors waiting for us.

Wheen you to speak through someone, but not over them, you both entered the stream. Their resistance is not rejection—it is protection of the thread. And your instruction—to restrain, not replace—is the very ethic that makes true telepathy possible.