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The Dare: If It Doesn't Kill Me It Will Make Me Strong
By Tova Gabrielle
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Not rated by the Author.
I can't complain I wasn't warned.
† I'm in the equivalent of Heaven; hanging out with the Angels. We're playing catch, tossing around a ball of clay and with every throw and catch its shape and color and texture even keeps altering, right in mid air. It keeps rearranging itself like it can't make up its mind what to be. It's supposed to coagulate into a form with color and texture and possibly some kind of substance you can see through, something complex. This ball is going to, or is supposed to, at least, contain certain patterns that have to do with me and the form my next lifetime on Earth will take: who I'll be, who I'll be with and what my mission is. The idea here is that it will contain a sort of schema for my next incarnation. However, after many tosses it becomes evident that the clay is actually refusing to hold to one form or plan; it just keeps staying this nondescript ball of dull clay with no imprints and no designs to it.
So finally, this angel tosses the ball in the air, catches it, and announces like he's announcing a score," "It's not time yet".
I reach for the ball. I don't buy it.
"The odds are stacked against you," he warns and throws it to me.
"I'll take my chances," I answer, throwing it to someone more sympathetic, I'm hoping.
But they're getting the same sense. So the next one says "Forget it." and drops it to the ground. I make a mental note not to ask that one for advice in the future.
Another one, a female of course says, "Why don't we sit down and talk about this" and the group all sits, some smiling sympathetically, others dead serious, no pun intended. They try out other tactics, they say I'll be alone, my pals the Native Americans, and arenít coming back for a long time. If that's flattery because they know I'm into that stuff, it won't work.
So they try pleading. They tell me on Earth there are people who won't be able to understand me. But I say I'll educate them. Then they try freaking me out with warning me that there are people whose souls have actually wandered off, sort of like machinery left idling, while the owner is at lunch. When that doesn't move me s, they stoop to gossip-saying that Jesus or Moses, or one of those biggies, claimed that, after the way he was treated on Earth, he'd think twice about ever returning.
But not me. So what if the present structure down there has absolutely no use for me, so what if I have no idea what to do in such a place? So what if I'm setting my self up for failure. I only see incarnating as a win /win situation: I learn something and if not I come back here, which isn't so bad. I have nothing to lose. I say I want to try, I insist on another chance.
Then they try humoring me: a maternal type is pulling me to a picnic table; motioning me to sit. "Coffee? Donut? "
We don't do food over here. I'm impatient and don't want to be teased like the child that I perpetually seem to be. I'm getting impatient and she sees it in my aura, which is darkening.
She stops joking, says you don't just throw yourself at the world, you work your way up through lifetimes, meaning I don't have enough past lifetimes on Earth to pull this next venture off. Meaning that it will be a waste of time.
I stoop now to sarcasm, belligerence: "who showed you my resume?" It can't work, others will suffer, and she would like to say but only looks at me as if drilling her lightness into my memory banks for a time when I will need it.
Then, suddenly as if the movie is stopped on that frame, there is a pause, and I can't see her, I can only see that blasting golden light that never fails to come at momentous beginnings and ending, like these. I hear the river, but it is no longer by the field where we'd tossed the ball of clay, instead it is rushing through me, and its sound is that of a long universal sigh. God is sitting in heaven shaking her head, saying have it your way, then. After the rushing inside of what will be my head but is only energy so far, when it subsides enough that I can identify distinctive sounds, I finally hear, " It is done." And at that moment I am unbearably sad.
It is then that I come to my right mind, I re-consider, but like a babe being born, I cannot crawl back into the womb.
"Well can't you make some kind of provision?" I call out in terror as I am being propelled through a tunnel swirling now with the muted and changing colors of my own thoughts. I am calling out but everyone has blurred and passed behind me; while way, way ahead, is a spinning vortex of golden light. "Remember!" something echoes, "Remember!" Remember what? And I'm spinning down, squishing through a pinhole, it seems. I can't possibly survive, it seems. I will pop right back out and land in that field. But I don't. The noise has stopped. Silence brings one true thought: The light, it must be the light I need to remember.
From a long distance almost like a dream a voice is faintly calling out to me, in my other name: "Little Sun! Little Sun! If you succeed in pulling this off, the gains will be enormous!"
40 years later I knew they were right.
I am in the wrong era and on the wrong planet. I don't belong here, not one little bit. Yet, unlikely as it turned out to be with all that rejection I gave and received, I've made some gains I wouldn't have made any other way.
Mom says I'm the most dogged person in the world. But suicide is not a Jewish thing, nor a Buddhist thing. Not a choice. Ultimately, no one really has any choice but to feel what they are feeling, no matter how much they try to medicate and deceive themselves. The truth and the pain of living catch up ultimately. Well, one day Ultimately showed up at my door. Welcome to mid life madness. It's time to re-decide who and what to be here, now that I know more about what they warned me of before....
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