Met
a reincarnated person? Me neither. Nor can I definitely relate to any past
life. So therefore it doesn’t exist. Simple. It doesn’t exist! After all, as an
awakening child my own fertile imagination was most likely provoked by the
image of an Arthurian knight, or that of a full-sailed pirate ship, or that of
an Egyptian pyramid, or what of that opening sword fight in Romeo and Juliet?
De ja vu! Such excitability to my sentiments is proof perhaps that I once was
someone in the past, perhaps a soul in several pasts? Then again, that concept
of reincarnation is surely just that, conceptual. I mean, there are arguments
we never descended from baboons, and hairy as I am, it is no proof that my
genetics are from their lineage! Nor that of caterpillars, gazelles or worms!
And just because someone has feminine traits, or a female is overtly masculine,
for that matter, it does not mean he or she is a carry-over from a past
life-time! What rubbish! Reincarnation, like Alice in Wonderland, is a
fig-a-ment of the imagination! Why, if I were to... And so it goes.
Thing
is, unless one specifically can relate, can identify with, can feel for, can be
sure of, there is much dismissal of concepts at the expense of those who
believe, or who’ve ‘been there, done that.’ Some argue having a 'soul'. Yet
there certainly are sufficient proponents of reincarnation enough to fill out
books and tracts and orders and religious gatherings on the subject. 'I want
what’s right for me,' is the ubiquitous category. Indeed, we are so concerned
with the ‘me’.
My
soul. My spirit. My body. My life. My lives. My likes. Wants. Fears. Feelings.
Loves. Me, mine, and I. And don’t you cross me. Don’t invade my space. Don’t
you try to change, influence, persuade, preach or proselytize; I am me and I
will believe as it suits me. Predominantly. Sometimes I shift gears and am
swayed by the momentum of my family, my friends, my society, my governors, my
God. It is my prerogative! It is my right! I am a soul on a journey, or not. I
know some say I am just here for just this lifetime and then gone, dust to
dust. All of me? Well...
Iconoclasm
is the instinct of the cynical, the existential, the distinctly left-brained.
Its break-down and examination of improvable constructs keeps a check (and
balance?) of the status quo. After all, between theory and fact lie many a
discussion, many a contention, many an argument, and many an opinion. An
individual is so very paramount; so very iconic; so distinctly significant; so
completely important! Or not. Depends if that individual is ‘me’, or not.
Me
and I drive sensibility. My belief will dictate my life-style, dominate my
desires, depict for me my choices. And to let go of my sense of me, once I die,
seems unfathomable. Surely I will go to heaven, I will evolve to the next
level, I will be held accountable, I will be free from suffering, I will go
on... won’t I? What’s more, I will meet my maker. I will reunite with my
family. And when the jury is in, I will...
Met
someone who’s been to Heaven? Hell? And not the ones we make or find ourselves
in down here, but up there, in the afterlife? Certainly, there are reams
aplenty about that too.
Thing
is, my own conceptualization of the molecular dispersal of ME into the Whole is
but an idea. It may discard Future Ego, leaven MY past, free me of MY future,
attempt awareness of my present, and be fancifully osmotic in the extreme. It
may discount mirrored continuity, it may discount my owning an integral
cellular antiquity, but it does not disavow a responsibility to the health of the
whole. Ha! It is my, me, I, and mine idea. And I can live with that inadequacy.
You?