I like to think some part of me, the immortal part of me that feels and remembers beyond what the flesh is capable of, sees to the end of all things.
I laugh at times to think how silly and unreal time is, because I am the sociable, grinning child still, I am the tormented adolescent dreaming of guillotines, I am that calm woman laying her head down for death, I am that mother watching a child toddle after a sheep. I am the down side to the belief in reincarnation, the woman who never gave this life all her focus because there was so much to see before it, ahead of it, around its wavering edges. I get through this life because I feel my soul stir in me, Ovid’s god that warms us, and I know that everything paining me now is so ephemeral.
I was a teenager, it seems, months ago. A short time ago I was on the Other Side, enjoying home, reveling in my work of teaching and counseling souls who incarnate as gifted children. I will be back to this, and then on to another life, in fleeting seconds. Time is what we make it, how we perceive it. All is happening now, and now and now. When I was isolated in this life, interacting with almost no one, eternity surrounded me. But in recent years, in the process my last therapist called “becoming human,” I am learning to deal with people. Life shrinks to a single point of now when I do so. It is healthy to be in this now, to be human. But it takes from me, however briefly, this endless expanse of time and possibility.
I had a good day the other day. I was at my university most of it for my two current classes, and in the first, not only did I have a conversation with my sometimes-friend Kayla, commiserating about how awful and humid summers are here, but I also assisted my psychology professor in teaching the class about autism. I participated a lot, and my teacher thanked me with genuine warmth more than once. I offered the whole class permission to ask me anything they like about autism and my experience with it, so who knows, perhaps I will speak to some of the other students. Before the second class, I explored the building on my campus that is decorated interiorly in a style similar to the palace at Versailles, even did some work on my notebook in one of the ornate rooms. I felt so at home that when I left, it was jarring. Why didn’t all the rooms I moved through look as exquisite? But I think I’ll make this building a usual study spot. Later on I took a quiz in my history class, which I’m pretty sure I’ll get an A for. In the psych class, I got a quiz returned and only one missed one question.
I know I need to focus on this life. This life, after all, has a strong link to the past one I remember most. I have some of my old dear ones back, like my youngest son, and my old friend Herr Mozart (yes, that Mozart), and his lovely soul mate. I have a potential career of counseling and writing and maybe one day teaching ahead of me. I try therefore to give my attention to now. But the past, oh, the past. As Edward Thomas, I think, said, it is the only dead thing that smells sweet.