The Reaper Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Airian and I dated for a few months. I have to say that those months were the happiest I’d had in a long time. We did things that couples did. Cooked together. Played with her camera together. Saw movies together. Introduced our respective friends to each other. Fought on occasion. Nothing major.

But she was everything to me.

It's almost indescribable the way she made my heart tremble. I didn't want to spend a moment away from her and you bet your ass I was up hers the whole time. It was reciprocated. It was wonderful. I felt like I could fly around her, I was that lovesick.

“So explain it to me again,” she said one day as she added more vegetables to the hot pan. I turned off the oversensitive smoke detectors so she wouldn't set them off. My cooking capabilities consisted of Ramen and TV dinners, so she made sure I ate right every weekend or so. “You walk the dead down to this beach and they row off?”

“That's the pattern.”

“But where do they … you know, go?”

“Beats me.”

“You obviously get paid.”

“Enough to survive comfortably.”

“Don't you ever wonder why you were chosen to do this?” she asked, putting the pasta into a pot of boiling water. Every motion she made was captivating.

“All the time,” I admitted, handing her the pepper. “But it's not like I can just ask.”

I never told her about Marcus. For some reason I thought his presence on this earth should be a secret.

“That's bullshit,” she told me, pointing the spatula at me. “Is there a way to complain to some kind of death supervisor or something?”

“I wish.”

“What happens when you don't do it?”

“Never tried. Something bad. I feel it.”

Arian drained her pasta and lathered it with butter and garlic. “Are you scared?”

“About what?” I asked.

“Of dying.”

“Terrified.”

“Why?”

I thought about that and lit a cigarette, dragging deeply and exhaling slowly. “I'm just like anyone else I think. I’m alive, so I can't know what lies beyond that beach. It's that simple. Everyone fears the unknown.”

“Not me,” Arian laughed. “I get excited.”

I wrapped my arms around her from behind. I can say I cherished every moment when I was with her. I swear the sun shone brighter in her presence. My whole world was more enriched, and good god she was my everything.

I couldn't have been happier.

The Reaper Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Man, cheer up, London. You're killing my buzz!”

I shrugged and knocked back another shot. “Sorry.”

“You've been real shady lately, you bastard,” Seth told me. “Ever since I helped you move into that apartment your all emo.”

“Don't compare me to teenagers,” I replied.

“So what have you been up to? This is only like the third time I’ve seen you since May.”

“Nothing, really.”

“I call bullshit.”

“Call it what you want, I’m just not into getting so inebriated I can't think strait.”

“Buzzkill,” Seth accused. The waitress came by and cleared our empty glasses, then asked if we would like anything else. I declined. Seth ordered another shot of tequila. “So what, you got a girlfriend or a boyfriend something?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you even have a life when I’m not around?” Seth laughed.

“Can't say I do.” I rose to leave after I paid my tab.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. It's late.”

“Good lord, it's only nine o'clock!”

“See you later,” I told him, and left. I wonder if it was truly just chance that I was getting irritated with one of my only friends and ducked out. Still raining. Maybe I was depressed or something, but dealing with death every week or so was taxing to my psyche. I found myself wondering what would happen if I just stopped doing it.

I wonder a lot of things.

“Don't be this way, baby.”

“Get lost, you creep!”

“Come on!”

“I said beat it! I broke up with you because you just don't listen. We're THROUGH, got it?”

“Airian!”

“Get your hands off of me, asshole!”

That made me stop and glance over to behind the bar. Call me chivalrous, but I had real beef with anyone that would lay their hands on someone weaker. It just triggers a nasty reaction in me.

I walked up behind the jerk and yanked him off of his victim. Whoever he was, he was drunk and swinging at me. I ducked and laid a hard punch into his gut, which stopped him dead in his tracks. He dropped, moaning in pain. I held my hand out to Airian, who seemed too shocked to really register what just happened.

“Let's get out of here,” I told her. “Before he decides to get up.” I nudged him with my foot. “Which won't be any time soon, but still...”

Airian smiled. I thought I would die in that instant. She was a heavy set woman, but looking at her face made me conclude that if she were skinny she wouldn't be as pretty. Her blue eyes were captivating, and though her hair was wet with rain, it perfectly framed her face.

“Okay,” was all she said as she took my hand.

We made our way down Main Street, and then the questions started.

“What's your name?” Airian asked, looking up to me. I was tall and lanky, so her seeing me drop someone who weighed about a hundred pounds more than me might have been a surprise.

“London,” I answered.

“I'm Airian.”

“Pleased to meet you, Airian.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She smiled again. God she was hot when she smiled.

“Should I walk you home?” I asked, concerned for her safety. Honest.

Airian frowned. It wasn't as pretty as her smile, but she still had a magic about her that I could not deny. “I don't … want to go home yet.”

“That's okay. Let's enjoy the rain,” I told her with a smile. As I thought, she smiled again. I could go on all night and day about that smile. And when I was the reason for it I felt giddy. “What are you doing in this crappy little college town?”

“I'm a student,” she said as we walked. “I study art.”

“Any specialty?”

“I'm a big fan of Andy Warhol, so it's pretty broad,” Airian sighed. “I like photography mostly, but I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this degree.”

“Why do you say that?”

She gave me a look. Oh, that look. “Come on, who hires an artist? Very few of us miserable artists can make a real living off of what our passion is. I’ll probably be on register for the rest of my life.”

“That's so sad.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean that you have to compromise on your passion for your job.” I turned us up Court Street, not really caring where we ended up, though I was headed home by habit. “Nothing you do should be a waste.”

She looked inquisitive, but didn't continue the topic. “So what do you do?” she asked.

“I escort the dead to their fate,” I said bluntly. I don't know why I was honest, but I wasn't told that it was supposed to be a big secret or anything. I looked down at her to gauge her reaction.

“I don't know what that means,” she finally said.

“To be honest, neither do I,” I laughed. She laughed with me. Golden music, that. “It's just something I have to do I guess.”

“We all have to do things that we don't want to,” Airian said quietly, stopping.

“Are you alright?”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I dunno, I was headed home and wouldn't mind the company.”

Airian squinted. “No funny stuff, I have mace.”

I laughed again. “No way! You're definitely my type, but that would just be rude!”

She blushed. Ah, her expressions! Her lips hinted upwards, like she was trying not to smile. A tragedy in my opinion. “Just keep your hands to yourself and I’d be happy to join you.”

“Wonderful.”

“I'm serious, no hanky panky or I will mace your eyeballs right out of your skull!”

“You have my word. Unless you initiate, my hands remain innocent.”

We stopped at the top of the hill so Airian could catch her breath. I was used to the trek, but waited patiently. She had taken off her heels, as it had been too steep for her to walk in them, so there she was, barefoot in the rain, a vision of beauty.

I don't think I even swooned this much with my first girlfriend.

We got to know each other a little, but the last few blocks were quiet. I paused and she bumped into me. “What's wrong?”

“We're here,” I said, looking past my house to the graveyard fence not twenty feet away. My one bedroom upstairs piece of crap dwelling was dark and lonely upon entry. It made me uneasy, so I turned on the light. Airian took off her coat. “Put it on the couch,” I instructed, taking off my own drenched hoodie and hanging it up on the bathroom door.

“I could never live so close to a graveyard,” she commented as she looked out one of the windows facing the hill.

“Part of the job description,” I told her. I still wasn't sure if she believed me or not.

I’m not sure what happened next, but the order of the evening meant little. I was fucking her before I knew it. I don't know, maybe I found her confidence in her body image attractive. Most bigger women are always griping out their weight. Airian never did. If she was insecure about it, she hid it well. Every inch of her skin was quivering to my touch, and I worshiped her figure with my lust. It couldn't have been more perfect.

We exchanged numbers in the morning and she went on her way. Watching her leave, I caught sight of a hurse. No rest for the wicked I suppose. I located my dry longcoat and found the mask, tracing over the lines painted on it with my fingers for a while before donning it. I couldn't get my mind off of her though.

Fuck.

I was struck dumb in love without even noticing it.

The Reaper Chapter One

Chapter One

Maybe I was just looking for an excuse.

My life was mundane, and there were a lot of empty holes, so I filled them with a search for myself. Whatever that meant. I lived by myself across from a large graveyard down the hill. I had a job. I paid my bills. I played guitar. I looked at Playboy. I thought about how interesting my life would be if I actually cared about anything enough to follow through on stuff like that. I could have moved. I could have turned it down.

I have only met Marcus once, and he gave me the vague details of what I was to do. It was surreal, as if I had woken from a dream only to find that I had been awake the whole time. He told me about the dead. He handed me a mask to shield my identity. From who I can't really say, but Marcus was kind of a big and scary dude. So the only questions I asked were the ones that pertained to my duty.

I guess what I regret the most is not asking him why.

It was rainy, so today's funeral was a short and tearful affair. I had gone numb from such things. It didn't matter if it was an older person, someone my age having their lives cut short and even children didn't even make me flinch anymore. They were dead. That was that. I didn't know them, and I didn't care to. With the mask only the deceased could see me.

It got old, really. The dead – only just very recently severed – asked an awful lot of questions. Sometimes I answered them. Sometimes I just didn't bother. “Where is Heaven?” “Am I a ghost?” and “How can I be dead?!” were common protests. Today a forty-eight year old woman named Sharie had died of cancer two days ago. She was the most distraught of any of them I’ve seen. She could barely speak through her weeping. Six months ago I would have tried to comfort her. Today she was just another dead person.

“But WHY?!” she sobbed into my chest.

I didn't know. So I didn't answer. Just pulled up the hood of my longcoat and beckoned for her to follow me down the hill. She just stood there.

“Are you Death?” she asked fearfully.

“Tch!” I snorted. Yeah, like I had that kind of power. I’d make my bitch landlord drop dead if that were the case. I beckoned again. I wanted to say “Hurry up, lady,” but being cruel to them never helped. They cling to me, why I could guess was that I was the only one that could interact with them before they departed. Rarely was anyone willingly accepting of the fact that they were dead.

My presence made it real.

Some would cry. Some would even laugh. A lot of them drilled me for answers I don't have. I used to hate just shrugging , or apologizing when I didn't have the reasons they wanted to hear. But now they were just another soul awaiting wherever they went after I delivered them.

I started to walk down the hill.

“Don't leave!! Wait!” Sharie called, jogging to catch up to me. “You really don't know anything?!”

I shook my head and beckoned again. Finally, Sharie followed, eyes watching her feet in defeat. The fog and steam from the cold autumn storm swelled up at the bottom of the hill, and as I led her through, the grass and gravestones faded away, lost in the thickness of the cloud of damp dew. After a few minutes the sound of an ocean could be heard.

Sharie noticed through the silence between us. She seemed anxious to break it, though asking me anything probably wouldn't answer any of her fears. “Where are we?” she asked meekly through tears.

I suppose I’m a sucker for weaker women. “The River Styx,” I finally told her, pointing to a boat on the shore of a dark and murky beach.

“But … where am I supposed to go?” she whispered, holding tight to my arm.

I shrugged again. I just pointed to the boat again. Sharie screwed up her face as she let more tears fall. But I recognized the posture of the conclusion the soul at last comes to. She was dead. And there was no taking it back.

As soon as she got in the boat and started rowing my obligation ended. But I watched her until she disappeared into the fog, wondering if I too would someday come to this fate. And who would guide me? Or would I already know? I never knew what was beyond that beach, and I suppose when I’m dead I’ll find out. I went back the way I came and ended up back in the graveyard, the mourners already gone. It was pouring here, so I just left and went back to my second floor apartment, stripping off my wet clothing and putting that mask back in my bottom drawer.

I’ve tested the ability to go about invisible, but it seems to only work around gravestones. Never tried that again, when every soul that hadn't been sent off flocked to me like moths of a flame. Made me wonder … who else does this? I know I can't be the only one, or the world would burst with dead souls. I had burning questions like these for Marcus, but I only ever met him once, and I was too shocked to really ask anything else.

No, I’m not Death. I’m a Reaper. Whatever that means.

And then I met Airian.

The Cracked Pot

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck.  One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.  

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master's house.  Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments.  But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfections, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. 

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."  

"Why?" asked the bearer.  "What are you ashamed of?"  

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house.  Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work and you don't get full value for your efforts," the pot said. 

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some.  But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure. 

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path but not on the other pot's side?  That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it.  I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.  For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table.  Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

Each of us has our own unique flaws.  We're all cracked pots.  But if we will allow it, the Universe will use our flaws to grace ours and others' tables.  In the Universe's great economy, nothing goes to waste. So as we seek to forge our way in this world, don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them take advantage of them, and you, too, can be the cause of beauty in our pathways. 

 

Go out boldly, knowing that in our weakness we find our true strength and that "...if that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find it without. For behold, I have been with you from the beginning, and I am That which is attained at the end of desire."

Three Ghosts, First Haunt

This one will be on Witchvox in a few weeks.

Twelve Step Paganism (uh... WHUT? And other exclamations of confusion)

Let's get the disclaimer out of the way, as we are dealing directly with any Twelve Step Anonymous Program that exists: I'm not getting paid for this, this isn't endorsed, and the only interaction with any Twelve Step executive I have ever had has never been for such ventures – only to heal, as the programs promote. I DO NOT WISH TO OFFEND OR VIOLATE THE TRADITIONS OR PRINCIPLES OF ANY TWELVE STEP PROGRAM. These are my OPINIONS, and in no way represent ANY program of such a nature.

Okay, let's get started for real.

It's a Thursday night at 7pm. The smell of brewed coffee and stale doughnuts fill the room as people of varying misery shuffle in and take their seats around a stained plastic table in the basement of some local church. Regulars greet each other, while relatively new members sort of stand around awkwardly, ruminating various insecurities in their heads.

Welcome to the average Twelve Step Program, be it for alcohol, drugs, overeating, gambling or any impulsive, overindulgent behavior. The first thing a Pagan will notice with perhaps a bit of apprehension or unease would be that there is a 90% chance that he or she is standing in a church of Jesus Christ, and almost every member will make that fact very clear with statements of “God bless you for coming here!” and “Jesus loves you very much to have brought you to the right help!”

To which I smile stiffly and say, “I appreciate the sentiment, ma'am/sir...” not about to broadcast my blasphemous stance on the Divine in their eyes (just yet anyway). And I do appreciate it… but by the Lady I'm uncomfortable!! Very few even see my pentacle under my scarf and those that do probably think it's a cool little Celtic knot or something.

The benefits of such a program are very mixed to those of us in the Pagan community. Some find it very helpful to see others with similar problems and being able to express them in a safe and mature environment does wonders for recovery. All one has to do is trust one's Higher Power –

Snag.

Higher Power. That's a very, very loaded word. When one is a Christian, there is very little doubt about who or what that is (be it God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary or any Saint recognized by a Catholic community). Okay. Sooo... and if you're not Christian? Blank stares, usually. Sometimes even a desperate attempt to Witness to me right on the spot. As if to say, “What do you mean you're not a Christian? Surely you're at least an agnostic who acknowledges a monotheistic paradigm in some vague way?!”

Hate to categorize so radically here, but this is the attitude I've received at 99% of meetings across the state, and from discussions with others, similar attitudes are held across the country with few (blissfully wonderful) exceptions. I've got no problem with the Serenity Prayer – its a very useful little mantra. But when I replace the word “God” with “Goddess” or “All-That-Is,” I can expect to make others uncomfortable at best, death glares at the worse end of the spectrum. I've yet been asked to leave, but I can feel the sentiment oozing from just about everyone there. The same thing occurs with the reading of the steps and traditions – I often replace the word “God” with something I feel more akin to all the while trying not to blatantly offend (less likely to say “Loki” or “Kali” for example, more likely to say something like “We-She-He-It” or “The Source”).

And all this angst is just the social aspect.

When one subscribes to a polytheistic paradigm, or a paradigm that assigns no solid “Higher Power” to an external force, many of these techniques crumble under pressure. What if my Higher Power is my non-middle self? (For example: the Fetch, the Shadow Selves, the HGA, several power totems/animals or even my ancestors?) Some fit, some really, really don't. What then? For a Pagan, to not only admit loss of control, but to willingly give our control up to another entity is for most a ridiculous concept! Most of us pride ourselves on taking a driver's seat in our own lives; to not whine about how “this or that” got us in this predicament. We did! So we solve it ourselves (or acknowledge the need for help from others after we initiate such change), using traditional mundane combined with metaphysical and spiritual mediums. Turning over our lives to a Higher Power is an alien concept with varying consequences.

My father is a drug and alcohol counselor, and having been sober for over a decade himself, he does a damn good job at this. He is also a Methodist, and we enjoy many a theological debate on occasion. When I asked him about this predicament, he just replied, “Your head is the one that landed you in those meetings. Follow your heart, not your head. When has that ever steered your wrong? Smart addicts are the worst kind, they think way too much.”

Well said, Dad!

Another solution a more open-minded member of a meeting once suggested that one's Higher Power doesn't have to be anything transcendent at all. It could be your cat or your goldfish. Chat at that. Turn your problems over to the animal and let it go. Some might have qualms about directing such negativity at our animal friends, so you might feel better smudging the fishbowl when you're done or putting some grounding stones in the tank, but I find this very effective as well.

Our Higher Power is where our Hearts are. Wherever that may be – with your favorite pet, within your other selves who might “know better,” the Oversoul Monad, your Guardian Angel, Jesus Christ or even Buddha (one doesn't have to objectify him in order to use him as a “Higher Power”) – I think its safe to say that your Heart's intentions are pure, and can be followed safely. An Alchemist once told a boy to speak the language of his Heart. He worked miracles, not only within himself, but within others.

References:

Coelho, Paulo; Clark, Alan R. (1993) . The Alchemist. English Edition. New York: HarperOne/ HarperCollins Publishers.

Two Ghosts, First Haunt

I'll be publishing this article on Witchvox.com next week.

Light, Love and Fluffy Bunnies, Oh My!

Thoughts on Polarities and Modern New Age Thesis

I've always been a non-conformist. I suppose a lot of us are, or we wouldn't be Pagan in a largely Judeo-Christian society. Here we are, doing the best we can to better ourselves spiritually in the most non-hypocritical manner possible.

So when I come across books and people that stress again and again the importance of light, love and compassion, unfortunately my knee-jerk reaction ... is a gag.

No really! Let me explain! I'm not some goth pessimist whose into the Pagan community just for the shock value and the cool darkness theme. I consider myself a student of Life and actively read anything I can get my hands on with mention to Paganism, new, old or ancient, well or poorly written, just for a nice broad spectrum to base my opinions on. When I was first initiated into Wicca, the reading list was rich and informative. Now its hard to find a read out there that isn't blandly 101 or just a rehash of what I already know. So I started reading the basics once again. Just to see if there was anything I'd missed.

Oh boy.

The concept of polarities was consistent in every page I turned, and it got me thinking very hard on some of the more “fresh” books in my library. It occurred to me that a lot of advanced or specialized published material out there stresses the goodness, wholesome love of our Source and how we should spread the love and be good, decent people to better all of humanity.

All well and good of course. Very noble indeed.

Polarities kept nagging me. So you're trying to ascend to a “higher vibration,” “seek the light” and “open the love” in all you meet. In a world where such crappy things keep happening such as violence, rape, intolerance and greed, its no wonder a lot of people are trying to pull away from such a nasty mindset. Kudos for those who are trying, I'm sure the world could use a bit of uplifting. But when I review the most basic fundamentals of polarities, I find that favoring this “higher vibration” is no better than being in the dark and ignorant of higher consciousness.

I would much rather be in balance with the vibrations of the world. To be so high up on that divine ladder is to lose touch with our humanity. Gods are Gods for a reason, we are human for a reason. Life is to be experienced, not transcended. Some humans may indeed move on the another stage of existence, and more still may even guide humanity in a positive or negative fashion. But here, now, in the present, the only moment that truly matters, we are human and experiencing what it's like to be incarnated.

Some humans (most even) are entrenched in their primal instincts (or vibrating on a “lower” or “denser” level), and simply using their self-awareness and intelligence to serve their own egos and are slaves to their whims. These kind of people are clearly out of balance and could use a bit of light and love.

But what about the rest of us? It would be ridiculous to think that one side of the spectrum is better over another. Striking the right balance should be our goal, as many of us knew when we first saw an image of a yin yang. Favoring the light over the darkness would be like favoring men over women, day over night or right over left. Forget the terms good or evil – there may well be no such thing as pure manifestations of either. Neither the high or the low end of this vibrational spectrum has anything to do with such simple-minded notions. But as for the rest of the comparisons... it doesn't make much sense to play favorites, does it?

Let's face it, negative emotions exist. Fear, anger and sadness all have very useful functions. Some of our reactions to them may or may not be acceptable, but to think of a world without such things? How would we know when we were happy? Starhawk once said, “To light a candle is to cast a shadow.” You simply cannot have one without the other. Some fantasy utopia in which everyone is happy and lovey and full of nothing but light is nothing but that – a fantasy. In that world, we would be mindless robots with no motivation to seek, change or develop. Boooooooring.

Helping people grow to the point where they can control their reactions to negativity in a productive manner might be a more realistic goal. “An it harm none, do as ye will.” That's a loaded moral code right there, and the topic of other essays, but living it out in a mature fashion might be the better destination.

There is no one single point upon which we are all in balance, either. Balance for one person might be totally wrong for another. To better ourselves as human beings, finding that middle ground (not a monotonous, static stay-in-one-place point, but a baseline of sorts) in which we can make wise and unbiased decisions seems to be ideal.

So forgive me if the world “naive” comes to mind when people start talking about “being one with the light” and “being filled with nothing but compassion and love for all of humanity.” Yes, yes, but don't be so silly to believe that you are above anger, fear or even hate. We are human. As humans, we need to deal with both the joy and the horrors of being incarnate. It is our duty to do so in a responsible manner. Why? Well that one is up to you, according to your creed or personal ideals. I think its a pretty universal concept in Paganism however, to want the best for ourselves and our brethren.

Why not go back to some basics, and see what you can find for yourself?

The Egg

The Egg

By: Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.