A Different Reality
I have read Michael Talbot’s book called The Holographic Universe and in it is a different way to explain reality. It is what the theory of quantum physics is about and I was surprised that I have been living this physics. In rereading journals I have found much that I had forgotten and much that I have integrated all the while as I was conducting my life in the best way I could. In retrospect, it has not been a walk in the park. It has been a journey of note and a hard one at best. I came across an entry I would like to share. This entry is longer than my usual 400 words, but bear with me while I try to explain what that unruly, really different child is trying to do with his or her life not quite like other children. Their intent is not to drive you crazy.
December 12, 1993
(For most people the connection between the past and present does not exist for them; that today is what they concern themselves with thinking it is standing all by itself. How best to explain this continuity that those like me know? That thread which is stitched throughout our lifetimes? That carries the past into the present and borrows on a future already in progress as we race to catch up with it? It makes no sense to linear thinking, and yet to me is as real as real can be. It comes with a sense of feel that is as ephemeral as a snowflake, yet as real as a coal that burns with a hot fire and the ashes that serve to fertilize a world yet unborn, but still as real as the one we think we inhabit.
It comes with the ability to place myself within time, sitting here in front of the monitor knowing the outside of me is part and parcel of what it is I sit in. I breathe the air that breathes me. I see my surroundings as I am seen by my surroundings. I hear sounds that are as conscious of me as I of them. I blend, I multiply, and I yield. And am blended, am multiplied and am yielded.
I reach out and reach in and find that I am reached both in and out. I think my thoughts and find that my thoughts are thinking me. I cry my tears and find that my tears are crying me. I no longer am separate and no longer find that my world is separate. For I am whole and my world blends and multiplies, breathes in and breathes out, and there is a depth that no longer escapes but permeates. The past is still happening, the present is now and the future already lends its essence to my now. I race like hell to catch up, try like crazy to mend the past and work my fingers to the bone mending and rectifying the present. To enlist some meaning to the now, to create within its moment a depth that will give it substance, that will not be lost somehow to a meaningless present.
I fear I speak a language escaping those about me. That it is with a foreign tongue I speak. Not the vernacular that would tidy up the present. Not with a meaning that would challenge the thoughts riding within heads like mine. Or looking like mine. For I fear I am out of step, that I have not the words that connect my world to others. Or my worlds to this one. I fear that what I present would be territory foreign to the present mind, to those whose only hope is the restoration of their childhood feeling of excitement in the holiday season.)
This was written in December of 1993 when I was 62. Seven months earlier I had had two cardiac arrests. There was no one who understood the context of what I tried to explain. And yes, not even the doctors. I ask that in reading this, for the child whose behavior is different, for the adult you cannot understand, whose language you also find foreign, that perhaps there is something to learn. And that something might yet be a light in some way for all of us. There is always that hope.
photo by John Holmes