I used to have a weird dream as a kid. I would dream I was a tall, black-haired man, though in real life I am a blonde, not-so-tall girl. In the dream, I wear a floppy shirt with lace at the cuffs and my hair is long and wavy. Chattering friends surround me, celebrating me and some upcoming adventure, the culmination of study and planning. It’s my going-away party, I finally understand. “We’ll be there soon!” they tell me. “We’ll all catch up. It’ll be great!”
I leave the party to go into a tiny room with a small bed and close the door behind me. All goes quiet. I lay down on the bed, excited, a little scared. I know this is how the adventure starts and that I have to be strong.
Suddenly the walls of the room ripple and contract around me with great pressure. I am turned upside down, my clothes, my stories and all the specifics of me are stripped away, and everything changes. In every dream, I would wake up at this point, gasping.
When I grew older, I recognized this as a birth memory. But the point is, my memories began before this birth, this lifetime. I was somewhere before I came here; I was with friends, and we had a plan. Sometimes in my life, I meet someone I like right away and get a funny feeling of recognition. “You were at my party,” a part of me whispers. “TOOK you long enough to get here!”
So I don’t see the end of this life, this existence, as going to The Other Side. This is The Other Side. We start out elsewhere and travel here like warriors on walk-about. We come with an action plan and syllabus, willfully forcing amnesia on ourselves to make the lessons feel more urgent. When we’ve completed our hero’s journey, we finally get to go home.
Created: Jul 05, 2013WootWendy Document Media