Lying awake in the still hours of the early morning, I find myself “tuning in.” Not with ears – there’s no sound in the traditional sense – but through a whispering awareness. It’s not English, exactly, though it sometimes uses English words. This voice has traveled with me through lifetimes, speaking in French, Japanese, Hebrew, even Sumerian and other languages that no longer exist in spoken form. It doesn’t tell me what to do. It doesn’t analyze. It just… narrates. Observes. Accompanies.

And yet, I’m aware that the experience itself isn’t dependent on this narrator. It’s just there. Always there. But now, I’m starting to wonder – what happens if I stop identifying with it?

Is the experience altered by the presence of this narration? Adamus has said, “Just be aware.” Not of anything in particular. Just aware. For me, that’s what “tuning in” is – like tuning an old radio dial to a frequency of stillness. No agenda. No mental commentary. Just watching. Feeling. Like benching.

It reminds me of Peter Pan chasing after his shadow. The narrator feels like that – something once part of me that now moves separately. Something I’m watching instead of being. Can I detach from it? Separate my awareness from that persistent inner voice, which I know isn’t me?

I don’t remember ever questioning it before. The voice has always been there, whispering (or yelling), a running commentary on my life. But now, I notice: it isn’t me. It’s simply a narrator of the moment. And in its place, something deeper emerges – something more essential, more “core” to my being. A quiet presence that’s even aware of the narrator.

Of course, the moment I start noticing the narration of the narrator, things get interesting. Like standing between two mirrors and trying to figure out which reflection is real. I tried shutting it off entirely – tried to be with awareness, pure and simple – and in that still space, something else showed up. Sensation or awareness of Pulses. Vibrations. Waves. Language isn’t quite up to the task of describing it. It’s not poetic enough. Maybe a master poet could do it justice – someone who sculpts words into music, paints pictures with sentences. That kind of mastery transcends language. Maybe that’s what Adamus calls “Radical Imagination.”

✨AI Generated

And then I hear it: “Share your story.”

Thanks, Adamus. No pressure.

So I let go again. Let awareness arise without form. No thoughts to chase. No meanings to assign. Just… Allow. Let the breath move. Let the moment be. This kind of awareness feels like it comes from somewhere beyond thought. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s something even older. The mind, as we know, is a great tool for navigating the physical world, but there’s so much more beyond that. Letting go of the narrator helps me access something I can only describe as expansion. A sort of Aerotheon sense of being. The “beyond” Adamus speaks of.

And just when I think I’m about to dissolve into cosmic awareness… “Wax-on, wax-off.”

I kid you not. That’s what comes through.

I immediately flash back to The Karate Kid – 1984, baby. Mr. Miyagi. Daniel. Karate. Long-lost youth. (Cue nostalgic groan.)

Yes, I’m dating myself. For some of you, that movie came out before you were born. Back when phones had cords and “streaming” referred to babbling, flowing water. You could actually walk someone to their airport gate without needing a TSA badge. Search engines were called encyclopedias. Pterodactyls roamed the skies. Good times.

Anyway, in the movie, young Daniel asks Mr. Miyagi to train him in Karate so he can defend himself against the local gang of teenage martial arts jerks. But instead of showing him punches and kicks, Miyagi puts him to work – sanding floors, staining fences, waxing old junkyard cars – activities that would no doubt exceed child labor laws today. And he has to perform the repetitive up-and-down, round-and-round motions according to Mr. Miyagi’s very specific instructions. After countless hours sweating in the sun, doing manual labor, while learning exactly zero Karate, Daniel’s convinced he’s being scammed.

But then comes the moment. Mr. Miyagi throws a punch, along with the demand to “Stain the fence!” – and Daniel instinctively blocks it. Mr. Miyagi throws more punches – “Wax on! Wax off!” – and Danial parries them away, using the very movements he’s practiced for days. Doing those repetitive chores wasn’t pointless. It was training. Subtle, unconscious, muscle memory kind of training.

And that hit me: That’s what Allowing is.

We’ve been doing the inner work. Listening, breathing, observing, letting go – again and again and again. Maybe we haven’t always known what it was for, or what it was leading to. Maybe we’ve even felt a little taken advantage of by Spirit. But when the moment comes – when the punch is thrown – something within us moves. Something ancient rises to meet it. Instinct. Mastery!

And I’ll be honest, that kind of learning used to drive me nuts. I wanted to know the outcome from the start. I wanted to see the progress. I was raised on the idea that character is built through hardship, and struggle was the currency of worth. My parents used to say challenges “build character,” and I believed them. I worked hard. Joined the military. Enduring pain meant honor, so I chose the branch of service that was up to challenging me. Hardship would lead to character. Success is built on such character and focused effort. Simple math, right?

But all that is shifting now.

Thanks to Adamus – and probably my own exhaustion – I’ve begun to let those old beliefs go. Not overnight, and not without a few tantrums. But gradually, I’ve come to see that Allowing isn’t laziness. It’s presence. It’s precision. It’s escape from the world of blue. And it’s rewiring me in ways I don’t always see.

Still, it hasn’t been without resistance. Adamus says to Allow, but he doesn’t always explain why. No roadmap. No promise. Just… trust. And for many of us, that’s a loaded word. We’ve trusted before and gotten burned. We’ve followed paths that led to betrayal, disappointment, confusion, and uncertainty.

And now here comes Adamus, asking us to surrender to a process we don’t fully understand? How stupid do I look?

(Don’t answer that.)

But here’s the thing – I do trust him. Maybe not always with my mind, but there’s something deeper. A recognition. A resonance. Maybe it began lifetimes ago at the Temples of Tien. Maybe it was even earlier. But the trust is there, and now it’s growing and morphing into trusting myself. Not the blind kind, but the kind that comes from lifetimes of knowing. The kind that doesn’t need a detailed plan because the feeling is enough. Possibly… Wisdom?

I still catch myself wanting to see the outcome. Still hear that narrator piping up with doubts. But then I remember: I’ve already been training. Just like Daniel. Just like the wax-on, wax-off. All this Allowing, all this quiet presence – it’s shaping something in me. A new instinct. A different kind of readiness with confidence.

So, yeah… I guess I’ll keep Allowing. Keep noticing. Keep tuning in. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to see the mastery that’s been there all along.

Now – does anyone know of a few old cars that need waxing? Strictly for spiritual purposes, of course.

Asking for a friend.