If you’ve followed my posts, you’ve also followed my daydream sequences. Let me explain:
I am not superstitious though I am convinced that reality is relative and mostly a creation we make to manage our lives.
For me, that idea probably began before I was born, conceived, or even was a twinkle in the eyes of my parents.
It began at least two generations ago with my paternal grandmother who had the vision.
She gave birth to my father who was born with a veil–also known in medical terminology as a caul; the remnants of the amniotic sac that plays home to a growing fetus–over his face. Such a circumstance in birth is rare but often happens in premature births. Therefore history has determined that the uniqueness of such a birth must also indicate something unique of the babies born under such circumstances.
The veil is reputed to, like prescription eyewear, provide enhanced vision. Babies born with a caul have “different eyes.”
I’ve known since I have been able to form memories that my father has “different eyes.”
Clearly before I knew anything of birds, bees, or birth–much less about a caul—I knew that my father had been born with a veil over his eyes. That he had been the only of his brothers to have seen a long dead grandparent visiting their bedroom at night, or the ball of evil that seemed to want to overtake he and his mother—though she didn’t notice the glowing fire red of it—on a dark late night walk were stories of my childhood that my best friend finally made me promise not to share at recess. They scared her.
The story of my paternal grandmother’s birth is not clear; her own mother died when she was a child. But she often contended that she had a twin who had died at birth. When her own mother died a few short years later under mysterious circumstances she was raised with little information about her parentage—at least little that she shared.
Likewise it is not clear if my twin sister and I were born with the veil although we were indeed premature; living precariously between two worlds for months following our birth.
My sister has always been a victim of her dreams. More nights than many she welcomed herself to my bed because she was so tormented by them.
On the other hand, I have often been an active participant in mine. Feeling the pain and joy intensely enough to wake under the auspices of the same emotions I’d experienced. I’ve also been a longtime daydreamer and keenly aware of nuance as much as my tangible surroundings.
Intuitive as the three of us–my twin, dad, and I—have proven among our family, I think that only recently have my twin and I openly discussed and trusted ourselves; our marked intuition.
Certainly, everyone knew of my father’s gift; sometimes curse. And my sister’s seemed clear long ago. Only after deciding, finally, to keep a dream journal did I realize the intensity of my own dreams. And that they can happen in my waking hours has made me more receptive to them.
Skeptics will suck their teeth in the same way I have done to myself most of the time. As a creative person, I also know that behind creativity is science—an effort to discover and explain via experimentation and manipulation.I have tried to explain.I cannot.
And I share them here without embellishment. I share them without presupposition. I share them because I am not convinced that to do otherwise would not be selfish. Mostly I share because I do not know what else to do with them but believe that to do nothing with them is not an option.