⦿ Nazis in the house

 I was remembering the time years ago when I was in France on a 2 month working vacation. A young man we worked with graciously took us to his family’s country home in a town near Paris  for a weekend.  (I’ve forgotten the name of the town).  His lovely mother still lived there, as she had as a young newlywed when the Nazis  occupied France in 1941.  Her husband was off  fighting in the war, it was just she and her mother in the house. 
.
She told me that one day 4 or 5 Nazis came along the country road, barging into houses at will  ‘because they could’.  In her house they demanded a meal to be prepared, with the best wine, as they ransacked the house.  They opened books, inspected photos, opened all cabinets and drawers, etc.  They took jewelry, some other small family heirlooms, liquor, and cash, and flicked cigar ashes on her rugs…. just being the a–hole  pigs that Nazis were.  So it was not only Jews who were targeted, it was anyone they pleased to terrorize, including 2 frightened women alone… just ‘because they could’.
.
As this sweet lady was telling me about the incident she began to weep and sob.
At that point it had been many years since it happened but to her it was like yesterday.  My heart ached for her.  And  I realized I was in the very same room where  actual Nazis had stood, a living history — that blew my mind !

.no Nazis !

Advertisements

⦿ The Egg (‘You Died’)~ a story

   The  Egg   (also known as ‘You  Died’)..a story by Andy Weir 2009
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?”
“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 and lots. And into lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?  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?  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.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

⦿ A Subtle Kind of Love ~ a story by Jake Christie

● A Subtle Kind of Love     ● by Jake Christie    { I love this piece! }/

He loved her in a distant kind of way, the same way the sun heats the Earth.  If she were to disappear completely, he knew through pure logic that it would have no great, disastrous effect on him.  He would not cease to be; he would not stop breathing; his heart would not stop beating; the world would not stop spinning. The sun would keep shining, radiating heat, if the Earth were not there.  On a certain, purely physical level, her absence would have absolutely  zero effect on his person.

And yet…He loved her in an abstract kind of way, the way a bee loves honey.  He wasn’t sure why he wanted to love her, but he wanted to love her just the same.  Maybe somebody told him once that he should be in love with somebody, so he felt a need to pick somebody and it happened to be her.  Maybe being in love was nice, sure,  but he didn’t need to be.

And yet…He loved her in a removed kind of way, the way a butterfly’s wings can start a tsunami halfway around the world. He knew that it had an effect on her, but he wasn’t sure how great.  On a certain level he was aware that if he were to stop, if he were to disappear, it would have a drastic effect. For him it would be one less flap of his wings, in a manner of speaking,  if such a thing were possible without him falling from  the sky.

And yet…He loved her in a subtle kind of way.  It wasn’t the kind of love you see in movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn’t the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambic pentameter. It was still and deep, like water that you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface.  It was entirely his, not dependent on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or he, or everyone else in the world disappeared.

It  was  a  subtle  kind  of  love,  but  it  was  true.  And  she  loved  him  just  the  same.  …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

https://jakechristieblog.wordpress.com/