A fellow-blogger let me know this week that he liked a recent post of mine. Looking at his posts, I found one which is really intriguing. He wrote about us being able to see the souls of people, presumably on Earth.
I am not sure that I want to see the soul of everyone I meet. Why? Because I know that many, if not most, of us wear a mask – perhaps involuntarily – in dealing with others. I certainly would not want my innermost drives, any strong antipathies, my hurts, even my transient thoughts to be easily read. Reason? My sense of privacy, even of security (perhaps of mental security), for there are exploiters everywhere.
Once I had my nature read. It is possible that my thoughts and feelings were read at the same time. This is how I believe it happened.
Soon after my father died (when I was 18), and I had been pulled back from a most probable death from dengue fever soon after, a man appeared at the door of our home. He spoke to my mother through their minds; although she spoke ordinarily. He said that he was a yogi who had come from a meditative period in the Himalayas (something he did from time to time to keep in touch with people); and that he could not speak because part of his tongue had been removed.
During his silent messages to my mother, which I too could follow, he held one of my hands while looking deep into my eyes. From what he said to my mother, it was clear that he could read my mind; he described me, my personality, and what had happened to me.
In response to my mother’s questions about my future, he said that I would go south to study. I did go south – effectively to stay. He foretold a few other matters of great import, which turned out to be true. The crucial issue is that my future (much of it traumatic) was to be in the great southern continent; and that he ensured that I did go there. Who sent him, I wondered (later in life, of course, when I came to realise that there had been a specific path laid out for me to follow).
Almost everything the yogi said must have come from his reading, through my eyes, of what was imprinted on my soul. Would any of us want every Tom, Dick, or Harry we meet to so read our souls? Not me!