Did you ever get the feeling that you are living in a foreign place, or trying to live in a place that is not, well, natural for you? Do you ever feel like there are deeper roots in your soul that are not exactly grounded in where you reside presently?
I’m not talking about feeling like life is offering you more, or you are “stuck” in a place that is keeping you from greater things. That’s a different feeling entirely.
I’m talking more about the deeper sense of place that seems to resonate from within, an inexplicable tug or pull whenever you read about, or visit, a location that might have little — if anything at all — to do with your life now or at any time in the past.
Lately, as is the case most every autumn, I have felt that inexplicable pull.
I wish I was
Home, where my thought’s escaping
Home, where my music’s playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me….
This is not a leave-your-family calling. I don’t need to sell
all of my both material possessions and join a tree cult in some mountain range. It is merely a recognition of a presence, a bond with a place that I know nothing about in this lifetime.
As well, I know that this place isn’t probably the first place that’s at the origin of this soul; it’s just the one that I can most immediately identify with.
I know that even writing about such things can be considered a little taboo to some.
Is he talking about reincarnation? Alternate lives? Time travel?
I think I am talking about all of these things and the possibilities that, when the mind is completely open, seem almost ridiculous to ignore.
It’s like all of this is some kind of game, some charade for something that higher powers are being ever-patient in waiting for us to discover how eternal our souls really are.
Tonight I’ll sing my songs again
I’ll play the game and pretend
But all my words come back to me
In shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony
I need someone to comfort me….
I remember hearing the story about Bridey Murphy. In 1952, Virginia Tighe, through hypnotic regression, chronicled a life in the 1800’s as an 8-year-old child living in Cork, Ireland. Although the story is now largely accepted as something The University of Melbourne’s Malcolm Macmillan called cryptomnesia in his published analysis: “…an imaginative reconstruction based on her contact with Bridie Murphy Corkell [a childhood neighbor in Chicago, IL] and other sources, aided and abetted by the suggestive context of hypnosis,” I cannot help but think — even feel — that there is some place deeper we can each call home, a place we yearn for with little to no understanding.
Yogic studies suggest that such a place is reachable through the two stages of isvara, a surrendering of the individual to the universe. With the mindful and consistent practice of dhyana, or meditation, one may eventually reach samadhi, a “union with the object of meditation.”
This is known as coming home.
I have not mastered the practice of meditation to reach such a state. Even with a disciplined practice of 20 or 30 years, I don’t know if I will ever experience the full joy of “coming home.”
Still, I cannot deny my inner feeling that I am homeward bound to some inexplicable place.
Call it reincarnation, call it woo-woo mumbo jumbo, call it some high-wave alternate-world shit. I don’t really care.
I call that inexplicable place home. Querencia. My wanting-place. And I will keep the channels open in the off-chance that some day, during an especially magical practice of dhyana, I reach samadhi.
And in that precise moment, I will, indeed, finally be in union with my eternal home.