We talk so easily about the soul; as if it were some alter image of each of us just waiting for death to unfold and awaken. Like a butterfly, caught in the cocoon of life aging like an old wine until it can be drunk by the Grand Master.
But in Hindu mysticism they talk about a Higher Self. Edgar Cayce talked about that too; and it or some close cousin is mentioned in other literature.
I dreamed about mine, but it was more like a stamping machine in a factory pounding out countless lives one after another: a pilot; a Russian; Arab; Chinese, Black; Hindu; Muslim. As though it's sole language was one of lives, and that was all it did.
As each of these went by like the passing numbers of a roulette wheel I got a peek into each one and glimpsed it's essence.
