I attempted a regression tonight and found, oddly enough, that it was actually what looked like Phil’s life coming through.
The scene was on a shore of some sort. The water was still, like Tomales Bay, but I didn’t recognize the exact shore. There was a narrow strip of beach next to a bank about 4 feet high and on the bank was dense forest. The thought crossed my mind that this was further north, toward Humboldt, around 1955.
But I had read that Phil had been a good ways north of the Bay Area around that time, on a camping trip with Kleo, so I’m not ruling out kryptomnesia unless I can find an exact match for this particular shore and place Phil there around the time I thought.
More than anything though, what I got out of this was a distinct sense of a life that wasn’t incomplete. It ended sooner than I would have liked but, truth be told, nobody’s ever ready to say goodbye. I was as ready as I could have been given the circumstances and as the sting of having possibly missed out on fame and fortune wears away, all I see is a life that was completed and laid down quietly the way all good things are.
“Remember, O man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.” Do you know what that means? It’s all swept away in the end and only the soul, which is nothing but a thread of pure Nous with no attachment to your name, your gender, your race, your species, or anything you’ve done, wafts on, either to remember itself and rejoin God or to be kicked back into this earth, back into another cloud of dust that will think itself singular and cosmically significant when it’s only a brief moment. If something of who we were before survives it’s only because we haven’t learned to let go, or it doesn’t suit us to let go.
But as I find my bearings and curb the bleak depression that had me wringing my hands over whether or not I returned to this life for a reason, I find that a new joy fills me. It’s not the bleak nihilism of simply not caring, but the joy of a traveler in a foreign land.
I’ll probably falter on this. I’ll question it again. My deep karmic fault of constantly having to fight for a cause will rear its head again and I’ll have to rein it in. The depression ebbs and flows and muddies the waters.
But getting close to finishing the longest, most involved and most conceptually advanced novel I’ve ever written and thinking about the new directions my work is taking makes me happy. Knowing I’m closer than ever to getting my life back in order after years of struggling with hidden disabilities makes me happy.
And when it’s time for this particular cloud of dust to dissipate, I hope I can be satisfied that the time I spent was good and worthwhile and not hold death to any contempt.
But I sincerely hope I won’t return to dust any time soon. I’m finally building a real life.