That Time I Made it to the Center of the Universe & Learned the Meaning of Life

One evening, not but a few months ago, I was transported to the center of the universe. How I got there I’m unsure. It didn’t matter at the time. All that mattered was that I had made it, and now I stood (or floated?) before the very consciousness that embodies the entire universe. In the starry darkness, I knew that this entity existed and flowed out of the even darker circular void directly in front of me, like a black hole in reverse.

This consciousness didn’t speak, but it communicated with me. I could hear its ‘thoughts’ in my own mind. It invited me to ask the question I’ve always wanted to ask. I paused for the slightest second, a pattern of hesitancy that had grown with me my entire life. Hesitancy, self-doubt, shame, humility. An entire lifetime’s worth of weight. But the next second I became weightless, and I asked my question without speaking. “What is the purpose of all of this? What does it mean?” It wasn’t particularly eloquent, but it was the question I most burned to understand.

I could sense a palpable compassion beaming from that dark center of the universe. It wrapped me in invisible arms and responded calmly but forcefully, “Love. That is all. Love is all that matters in life.”

If this were a scene in a movie, I would have scoffed at the cliché of it all. But in that moment, it wasn’t about the words that were conveyed. It was the feeling that suddenly overtook me. The consciousness entity began to pulse, radiating a soft, all-encompassing warmth that could only be described as Pure Love.

It washed over me, through me, into my cells, calmed my brain, and opened my own heart to the ultimate answer of the universe. I hung there in suspension, absorbing these waves and realizing that the one thought running through my mind was, “Yes. This is it. How could I have not known?” I felt no desire to be anything, to do anything, to accomplish anything. I already had. I was there, radiating with the only true energy that exists.

It was so powerful I would have cried, except there was no need for tears in such a loving state. It wasn’t ecstatic; it was serene, gentle, and timeless. It was as if I had returned to the ultimate womb, rolling in warm waves of love and gratitude with no expectations or projections or worries. This was the most powerful feeling I had ever felt within my body, and it came not only from that conscious entity but also from within myself.

As quickly as the love manifested, it washed away and I had fallen back into a series of nonsensical dreams, eventually to wake and recall just the slightest hint of that ultimate feeling of love. Technically it was all a dream, of course. I don’t believe that I actually travelled to the center of the physical universe. But this was one of those dreams that stays with my body for some time, like the remnants of light that slowly dim after switching off an incandescent bulb.

And while dreams are an expression of the mind, they certainly give us opportunities to connect subconsciously with deeper physical, mental, and emotional frequencies then we may be consciously aware of. I remember one time when I was caught up in a particularly tragic dream in which I was sobbing profusely, and I awoke still sobbing with a pillow soaked through from my tears. The emotion was real then, just as real as the ultimate love.

What I mean to say is that while I didn’t physically travel anywhere at the speed of light that night, I have no doubt that I traveled deep within myself and somehow penetrated a thickly guarded barrier behind which rests an everlasting fountain of love. I can’t help but think that we all have that fountain, that core, that energy, deep within us, buried under years of trauma, exhaustion, abuse, betrayal, and general adulting.

What I felt was real, unadulterated love. It was breathtaking. It made every cell in my body buzz with a knowing that calmed all questions, all doubts, all yearning. That feeling only lasting a few dream moments, but my own mind, my own body created that feeling – it throbbed in my stomach and radiated through me as if burning away all pain and suffering – so I have to think that feeling is possible to achieve in ‘waking life’ as well.

And I suppose that’s the whole point of this thing. To find whatever means allows you to dig through all the material distraction down to that little pulsing core of love. It has no doubt that it exists, so why should we doubt it? Even now, as I struggle to remember just how joyful and fulfilling that love energy of my dreams felt, I know it’s still in there somewhere, calmy waiting for me to rediscover it. It’s not the center to the universe that will answer our ‘whys’, but a journey to the center of ourselves. The universe may begin and end and begin again, but the energy that drives it exists always. And that energy pulses through each of us.

I don’t have the answers (not that we need any) to how to find that love, that completeness, again. I don’t know if I’m on the “right” path, or if I’ll ever find my way back to the center of the maze again. But I did find it, once. I have to think that’s something. Even as I doubt myself constantly, some part of my being is saying, “Look! You have it! It’s right here.” And maybe I’ll trust that voice again one day.

Have you ever found that center of the maze? Perhaps you are lucky enough to be sitting there calmly even now! I’d love to know how others experience ‘purpose’, ‘meaning’, and ‘love.’ We are all winding through this journey both together and alone. For that I am grateful.

What Do You Do

I wrote this poem in response to the innate fear that often manifests when you are presented with an opportunity you’ve asked for, that you want deeply, but that you are terrified to accept. Perhaps because you are afraid to fail, afraid to change, afraid of making the wrong choice. How do you let go of that fear and embrace inner wisdom? I don’t profess to know the answer, but I’m contemplating it daily.

What do you do

When the universe grants your prayer?

Do you cower in fright

Like a child who fears the night?

Do silent, salty tears flow down your face

And consume your soul

Washing away any semblance of your past self?

Do you give in to the power

Of understanding and pure love

That you can’t imagine possibly exists

And leap into the flowing current

Against the judgement of your mind

Or the cautions of others?

Does your heart shrink into itself

Hiding beneath the thick layers it has built over years


Like countless woolen blankets suffocating truth?

Does your mind pull you back into the past

With invisible bars and cold floors?

Or does your heart expand toward the light

The possibility

Of knowing itself in ways unimagined

Of swimming through fear and doubt?

Unsurely at first, cautious

But swiftly feeling the current lifting you up

Not pulling you under

As you give in to it, it gives back in turn to your supple movement.

Who were you, back then?

It doesn’t matter. You are here now, and each now is new.

Each drop is whole unto itself, but indistinguishable from all else.

Feel it.

Rip off the blankets. Dissolve the bars.


Leave the heavy voices behind like unneeded layers cast off in the warmth of the sun.

Feel the light on your cheek

And melt into the joy of the light.

Why I write

I write out of quiet desperation. I write out of self-preoccupation. Out of wonder, out of frustration. I write for the same reason that so many of us are compelled to have children, so that some part of my conscious self might live on after my body wastes away. I write secretly to the one I love, hiding the words in the deep depths of my computer’s memory. I write in the hopes that some of my words may impact others, may change minds, change perceptions, change the world—so to speak.

Words are power: the ability to influence, to sway and convince—or to outrage, to intrigue, or to inspire. I use the written word to do these things because I can not do so effectively with my voice, it is not my skill. I write to whine, to complain if only to myself about the intricacies of fate and luck. I write down thoughts to prevent me from jinxing them (I know, how odd of me, with a scientific background, to worry about such nonsense). Writing keeps me sane, keeps an audit trail of my thoughts that otherwise get tangled and fade away. Sometimes I write out of procrastination, to avoid my work, but I always cherish these pieces more than anything. I write because I don’t know what else to do. I should write more; sometimes I wait and wait for inspiration and it doesn’t come—I don’t know where to look. Other times it gushes profusely, raw, and confused, for pages and pages.

Writing is at times a crutch for me, an outlet distinct from social interaction, and yet a sort of interaction in its own sense, more solid and lasting than the ephemeral conversation. It is a record. It is a testament to one particular moment in time that will never be recreated in just the same way, those exact shades of emotion. I write to bleed my pain more often than to express joy. I write so that my abstract thoughts have a place to call home, where they may only be judged through the eyes that understand them, until they have been chiseled and polished. I like to think that writing is my “calling”, but really I don’t know this. There are a million better writers, poets, than I. I write so that I may have a purpose, or create one in the empty space that is each of our lives, and so hope to fill that space with tangible meaning for myself and those who share it with me.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

This was an exercise I took upon myself as a way to document the swirl of thoughts in my brain related to my desire/struggle to write. A number of important people in my life have recently reiterated a similar piece of wisdom that I’m now trying to follow more regularly: Just keep writing! Write a few pages each morning, just to yourself. Get out your thoughts, your emotions, your dreams, your goals. Over time you will start to notice patterns, and maybe, just maybe recognizing this will help you manifest what you really want (or need) out of life. At the very least it will help you cultivate gratitude, mindfulness, and creativity. Happy writing everyone!