Memoir | Mindfulness
My Inner Space Trajectory
A SOUL JOURNEY—Chapter 1
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When as a small child, small enough to be easily held in Grandma’s arms, I had my first memorable perception of inner space, I cried inconsolably. It was formless and void, a fuzzy gray ineffable expanse of nothingness. What it seemed to be indicating to my formative world awareness was that there was a partitioning between here and there. The here being in the world in my grandma’s arms, the there being where people went when no longer here. And yet, somehow inside me I could know and connect with that energetic field of consciousness. I was doing so at that moment.
It was also at that moment I understood that my grandma would return there, to a place human eyes cannot see and hands cannot touch. And she would go before I did — and we would be separated. Since it was a timeless moment, I did not apprehend that our separation was fifty-some years far off, only that she would disappear. And so I cried from intense frustration of not being able to translate my inner experience into outer communication, into words I could convey to Grandma. Being pretty much a babe in arms, I simply didn’t have the language.
It is possibly at that moment I purposed to comprehend that veil of separation and live in the outer realm without disconnecting from the inner. I wanted both. And without language, I understood that this entity called Jan was in fact a connector, which I would later identify as receiver, transducer and transmitter. And of course, I was an eager human being ready to explore wherever my curiosity led, whether inner or outer.
In fact, as I began my exploration of the outer realm, I wanted to learn things from the inside out at my own pace.
And I had lots of time for that. When my mom was busy with chores and my older brother was off doing his own explorations, I was content to entertain myself: coloring, organizing my closet, and after I learned to read at about 4 years old, I could never get enough of books. Outside I would swing endlessly or study the industry of little black ants or whatever caught my fancy.
I entered kindergarten when I was four years and eight months old, typically walking the sidewalk one mile to the school. It was actually safe in those days, and it embedded a love for walking in me. Walking was a time to ponder, observe, and explore, investigating my inner as much as my outer world. I never got lost or felt alone. I seemed to have my own internal GPS.
And I woke up every day ready to go, not wanting to miss anything — expecting to glean new understandings awaiting my observation like detecting marginally hidden easter eggs. I watched people and things and examined my surroundings as though everything was a metaphor with a message for me. Family camping trips and outings were particularly grand adventures where I felt a wholeness with my soul and nature. I absorbed the essence of those rich venues that must certainly have spiked my endorphins, as I remember them with deep enduring pleasure.
I loved waking up and just as much, I loved going to sleep, avidly entering my dream space to engage in captivating adventures.
I understand now that we create our own dreams, our consciousness and subconsciousness combining as the medium — the paint, the pixels — of nocturnal dramas.
For my small self, dreamland became a special creative play space I eagerly acclimated to. I even had a playmate there, particularly the couple of times I was sick with chicken pox or measles and had fever dreams. A dark-haired boy my age would appear in striped pajamas clowning around to cheer me so I would ignore the bad sick feelings. Those fever dreams would have been nightmares without him. Instead they became hilariously memorable scenarios.
It seems I discovered that creativity was the fuel to alter my trajectory, whether in dream space or awake space. It became my means to throw a curve ball around obstacles to strike my chosen target, or to shift my surroundings into a brighter ambience.
The only kids my age in my first neighborhood where we lived until I was six were boys.
Raymond was one and I would walk to his house just a ways down the street to play games. His mom would invite me in for lunch, and in some way I don’t recall she invited me to go to church with their family.
Since my family didn’t go to church, curious child that I was, I was ready find out what church was. My grandma had taught me to pray “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” So I had asked questions about what Lord was and soul and dying. When Raymond’s mom explained church was where we learn about God, I was ready to go. It seemed like it was part of my inner space agenda.
Raymond’s family were Mormons and their church met in the Women’s Club facility because it hadn’t built its own building yet. My best recollection of that church is sitting in a row of folding chairs while bowls with bits of white Wonder bread and tiny cups of Welch’s grape juice were passed around. I loved taking the bread and mashing it with my fingers until it was the consistency of cheese before I ate it.
And that was my introduction to religion.
I didn’t find God there, though I didn’t miss him, as I’ve always been pretty much content wherever I am. It did intrigue me though, because I couldn’t understand it and not understanding was incentive enough to forge ahead into an in-depth exploration of organized God-seeking…an extraordinary journey that would continue for decades.
Okay, that’s it for now. Chapter Two will emerge in due time. If you enjoyed this rising curve of my trajectory, please leave your claps and thoughts. I love hearing from you!
I hope you are enjoying my MidJourney Art & Mindfulness.
