When it comes to memory, how do we separate what is currently ours? Yet the question should be, what is not ours when we are part of humankind? What can we separate from since we do not know what it is we have participated in since time began?
Have we lived before? What is called reincarnation can also be memory banks filled to overflowing. Yet are there not new souls on this planet who do not have practiced ways of behaving that can only be the result of centuries of living?
Can we say we have lived before when we fumble much in elemental situations? If we are asking these questions, it means the footwork has already been done to bring us to this place.
Can this incarnation be one of many? Can we not be walking in many worlds relying only on custom for this one? For some, one answer is sufficient. And for others, if thoroughly understood, would have worlds spinning into oblivion.
There are those who have been open to such a degree that worlds have impinged uncalled for. Understanding can only come when there is a frame of reference to assimilate the information. There is no mind that can understand everything. All expressions are needed in every world to begin to uncover the essence of the spirit that rules and loves.
In the frame of reference that use the word God in its religious life or spiritual life, everyone and everything is allowed to express the many faces of God. There is no mind that completely understands nor completely accepts all the expressions of Being, whether in this world we inhabit or in worlds we give space to in thought. There are aspects of memory that have no putting place. It is only in retrospect that we can face the reality of many lives and loves and still retain our wholeness of being. It is with divine grace that we do.
Memory Bit. . .
Will you appear again?
The picture was hazy
and around the edges, vague.
I was conscious of you and saw only you.
Your black , thick hair was streaked with gray
and sweat separated the streaks.
The table upon which you laid
I cannot describe
but I was at your head
and your eyes were turned upward,
straining and you pleaded.
‘Do not watch,’ you cried
in a voice cracking with pain,
‘they are going to kill me.’
Your face. Your face.
The jutting jaw, the coarse features so angular,
as sharp as I even now remember.
I knew that face
in a time and space I cannot place.
Where had the horror begun?
The tears roll down the creases
of this face I now carry
and I let the pillow catch them.
I do not care anymore to hide them.
I can now cry down as well as cry up.
I shouted something into the night.
I do not remember what.
But sweet oblivion caught me
and I went to a somewhere
and awakened with no fatigue.
You will come again.
I have known you before
to recognize you now,
even in a memory bit.