When I was six-years-old, sitting at my desk in Mrs. Bushnell’s First Grade class, I became aware that though I had the brain and body of a child, I was also a conveyance for an ageless, genderless, and fantastically wise consciousness that had been around long before Todd was born.
I remember being unsurprised by the presence of this consciousness in six-year-old Todd, and for several minutes I observed and understood my classmates and teacher and the objects in the classroom with this newly revealed consciousness and not with the consciousness of a child.
I understood that my body and brain and self would continue to grow and change over time, but this other consciousness, this ageless consciousness, would remain unchanged throughout my life. I also understood that I could access this consciousness and the vast reservoir of knowledge and experience it possessed, but I might not.
And then, before my awareness of this other consciousness became submerged again in the sensations and thoughts and feelings of a six-year-old human child, I was informed that I would become aware of this other consciousness a few more times in the course of my life, and each time this awareness overtook me, I would remember the moment in Mrs. Bushnell’s class when I first encountered this ageless, genderless, fantastically wise consciousness that existed long before Todd was born.
And just a few days ago, this ageless consciousness made itself known to me again, and I had a vivid recollection of that marvelous moment in Mrs. Bushnell’s class sixty-five years ago when this other aspect of being alive was made known to me.
Starting when I was about nine, and for a few years thereafter, I would be sitting quietly, usually outside, and I would see the myriad pieces of the great cosmic puzzle coming together. And I was certain if I could sit very still and give my undivided attention to this coming together of the pieces, the puzzle would complete itself and I would understand how the whole incredible construct of life worked.
And time and again, just as the final pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, something would interrupt my concentration, and the nearly complete construct would collapse.
One time it was my mother calling, “Dinner’s ready!” Another time it was my dog barking at a squirrel.
Eventually those close calls with perfect understanding ceased to occur.