Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic
Now, I don’t claim to have any education on the subject of ghosts. Or anything paranormal for that matter. Besides what I manage to make up in my own mind. So lets take this one-sided conversation to the metaphorical sphere. Something I believe I’m more familiar with.
When Google was asked, it told me that being enlightened either means having or showing a rational, modern and well-informed outlook, orrr just being spiritually aware.
The house you see above – with those rusty red bricks, forgotten windows and a dark ashy grey roof – is an inanimate object. Physically. Literally. All parts of a normal reality we perceive from our five senses. But if you bend that reality for just one moment with me and personify the house with that thing I call an imagination, you start to see a home that has seen many things. An enlightened house.
Enlightenment comes with wisdom. Wisdom comes with age. And age comes with ghosts. You know…baggage, demons, scars, ball and chains, lead in the shoes, rocks in the pockets. Things acquired over time that hide the innocent beauty that once was. Like our empty house above. What kind of ghosts do you think it has? What kind of people lived in it? Was it made by a pair of rough family-man hands? Or do you find it more of a cookie cutter company house?
You tell me.
What is your earliest memory? Describe it in detail: the place, the setting, the sights, smells, and sounds.
It’s hard to tell what your earliest memories are. And if you think about it, it’s actually very subjective. What if you believe in reincarnation? Then you might have several types of memories from several different past lives. For me, it’s the jumble of memories of those days just out of the diaper. A knot of images that weave together without really being in sync. Visiting family. Carrying around a stuffed animal. Preschool with my first set of friends. General things that are reinforced by stories told by my parents.
That’s really what the earliest memories come down to, isn’t it? Stories. And I do love stories. Short and sweet. Long and mysterious. Fast and thrilling. Slow and meaningful. All kinds. And those are the things I will remember forever.
Understanding ourselves and the world we live in.
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