The Seed of Life, The teaching of Melchizedek

 

Sometimes, in those early mornings when the light is still hesitant, unsure whether it wants to be born upon the horizon, a strange sensation arises within me — as if an ancient geometry is encoded in the silence itself, a kind of breathing that belongs neither to me nor to the world around me, but to something deeper, more encompassing. And then I remember the Seed of Life, that first circle, that first pulsation, that first reminder that existence begins not with form but with an impulse — with a yearning to unfold, to multiply, to create.

I have carried this teaching within me for a long time — perhaps even before I encountered it as words, as knowledge. The teaching of Melchizedek is not merely a philosophy; I feel it as a quiet movement inside me, an inner alignment that happens in moments of revelation rather than moments of thinking. It reminds me that every form is a consequence of an inner decision — a decision of consciousness to be, to express itself, to create a structure capable of holding its own infinity.

When I think of the Flower of Life, I often experience it not as a drawing but as a mandala unwinding and weaving itself again within my own body. Each circle — a breath. Each intersection — a question. Each repetition — a memory of something I once knew and then forgot, the way dreams are forgotten upon waking. And within these circles I sense the layers of consciousness — not arranged as floors one above another, but as interconnected vessels continuously influencing each other, leveling, filling, overflowing, until they reach some kind of temporary equilibrium.

This equilibrium is fragile, almost painfully beautiful. It resembles the inner work of the soul — that constant, quietly hidden psychoanalytic dynamic that takes place beneath the surface of my words and behavior. Sometimes I sense one of my inner “vessels” tilting — fear, an unspoken sorrow, a sudden memory — and then all the others shift. There are no separate layers; there are interwoven circles, small universes that need one another in order to exist.

In those moments I tell myself that human consciousness is a lattice — delicate and intricate like a spiderweb in morning light. Every touch, every vibration alters its entire balance. And the more I try to understand this inner structure, the more deeply I realize that it is a binding between invisible layers, between my inner world and a much larger order that I cannot fully name, yet which I feel as truth.

Sometimes I imagine myself as one of the centers in this mandala — a small circle that affects other circles, a circle that must be aligned so that the entire figure can emerge in its wholeness. In such moments a quiet insight arises in me: if one center shifts, all the others lose their symmetry. Not because they are flawed, but because we are all “connected vessels,” tied by invisible threads that cannot be severed no matter how much solitude we choose or how many defenses we build.

That is why self-focus — that strange, often misunderstood state of inner gatheredness — becomes a moral duty, a spiritual discipline, a psychoanalytic necessity. The longer I can hold my own center, the more gently I align it within myself, the more I give the entire mandala — my interactions, my relationships, my invisible connections with the world — a chance to take on its true form.

There are days when this center trembles. Then anxiety spills, small but sharp conflicts rise to the surface, I begin to lose orientation — as if my inner lattice is rattling from tension. In such moments I understand how easy it is to fall into the illusion that I can “control” my life. But in truth, the only thing I can do is return to the center — again and again, with patience and softness, like someone coming home after a long wandering.

There is a thought in the teaching of Melchizedek that has always touched me both mentally and emotionally: every point is a living center of consciousness. And this means that my inner work — however small, however unseen, however intimate — has an effect upon the entire structure of life. Not only on my personal life. On the collective one, on that vast sacred organism we call “existence.”

And then I realize that self-focus is not an act of ego, but an act of reverence for that great mandala in which I, too, have my circle, my role, my small radiance.

When I manage to hold this center — not by force, but with humility — I feel the other layers within me begin to align on their own. Fear softens. Sorrow stops piercing. Memories lose their sharpness and turn into soft, almost blessed shadows. And in this inner reordering, which sometimes feels like a mystical surgery, a general synchronization begins to appear — not only within me but also in my relationships, in my words, in the way I inhabit the world.

Perhaps this is one of the quietest revelations I have ever had:
that the Flower of Life is not merely geometry — it is a process, a dynamic, a constant realignment, a continual returning to the center.

And every return is a prayer.
And every alignment is healing.
And every sustained center is a gesture through which I tell the world: I am here, whole even in my imperfection; I hold my circle so that yours may find its place as well.

In the moments when I feel myself as part of this mandala, this sacred lattice, I am filled with a quiet reverence. It is the kind of spirituality that does not shout, does not preach, does not seek to impress. It is a spirituality that happens inside — like the slow unfolding of a bud that knows its time has come.

And here I am — sitting, writing these lines, sensing how one of my inner circles gently settles into place. I do not know if I am doing it “right.” I do not know if I will manage to hold this feeling tomorrow. But I know that every true movement toward the center is a movement toward Life — toward its depth, toward its symmetry, toward its quiet, radiant beauty.

Perhaps this is all we can do:
to guard our center as best we can.
Not to flee from it when it hurts.
Not to neglect it when the noise of the world distracts us.
To let it lead — slowly, gently, yet faithfully.

Because when one center rests where it belongs, the whole world begins to rearrange itself around it.
And then the Flower of Life — that sacred, eternal structure — unfolds not merely as a form, but as a truth inscribed in our very being.