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7/3/18

"If a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass every time he jumped." Thus said my father, in response to queries of the "what if" variety.

So here we are descending from the sublime--in the last several entries--to the ridiculous. Why is it, you may be thinking, that I don't blog on topical issues? For example, why aren't I writing about the Fourth of July? I had to do that when I was a newspaperman in the 19th century. I get the sense I really didn't like it. I didn't like being handed a topic that way. So I am free from that obligation, today.

What I was thinking about, idly, as I took a portion of the walk around Back Cove here in Portland, Maine, is, "What if people fully cooperated with my past-life research?" You all don't realize that what I have been able to accomplish, by way of proof, has been against tremendous opposition. People just shut down if they hear the "R" word, even though the polls tell us that almost a fourth of us, in the States, believe in reincarnation. I suspect they believe in it so long as it doesn't get too close, or too real.

Specifically, I realized I had forgotten to drive by what's called the Peaslee Garrison House in Rocks Village, Mass. That's where I think the reception was held for Abby's funeral service--not her main one, but the one that was arranged some months after her death, for Mathew to attend from Portland. My volunteer researcher at the time had e-mailed me the question, "Do you remember anything about Abby's service?" I was in the process of telling her I didn't have any memories about this, when, as I was typing, they began coming to me. So I just started typing stream-of-consciousness, and it's amazing how much I got.

Some of it I have been able to bring to at least the level of "plausible," whereas it looked flat-out disproven, at first. But this particular detail, if I could verify it, would be a real smoking gun. What I remembered, was sitting on a sofa inside the House. People--mostly guys, because these are the friends that Mathew was able to induce to accompany him from Portland--are joking and cutting up and socializing. They, actually, wouldn't have known Abby very well, if at all. It's just a social occasion, for them. Nobody understands what Abby was to me, or how deep my feelings go (I'm writing in first-person, now), because I hide them so well. But I am screaming inside. I have to get away from these people--but Abby's mother has kindly arranged this whole thing, for my sake, and I can't hurt her feelings by leaving.

I'm going to stop for a moment, to relate something that I experienced in this life. A young woman who worked in a place where I had a long-term clerical position, died in a car accident. The entire company went to the funeral--we were all placed in the rear of the sanctuary. There was a viewing in the front. All were seated, the service was about to commence, and the girl's mother walks in from the back. She stops, takes in the scene, and says very softly to no one in particular, "I can't do this." And she turns around and leaves the way she had come in.

I completely understand. This is how Mathew was feeling.

So what did he do? There was, on the table before him, a bronze figurine of a dancer, pirouetting. It was on a dark round wooden base, covered with a bell jar. The jar did not have a handle on top--it was smooth, and it wasn't one of the narrow ones, but rather was fairly broad. I stared, and stared, and stared at that figurine, with all my will power--just to get through it.

I must add that at the time this memory came to me, I didn't understand that Abby was an excellent dancer. She must have been classically trained, but she used it to express herself when she was all alone, in Nature; and she must have danced privately for Mathew, as well. She mentions it when she first falls in love with him:

Forth! forth!
Fanned by Morning’s purple wings,
 Pluck the opening flowers;
Join the song the Spring-tide sings.
In its blushing hours;
 Dance! dance!
While the chanting streamlet rings
 Through the rustling bowers!

And Mathew describes it in his tribute poem to her, after she had passed:

Dance thy gayest dance, lady,
 Move in airy motion
As the dreaming sea-bird moves
 With the swelling ocean.

Now. The Peaslee-Garrison House is privately owned, today. My current researcher, who is a people-person (it's handy to have a researcher who's a people person), did speak with the owner of that house, and was told that there is no such figurine in it. But the historical record tells us that it used to hold all sorts of curious and interesting things. My guess is, that if this was a genuine past-life glimpse, that figurine is probably floating around somewhere in Rocks Village. Somebody inherited it. Somebody knows where it is, or at least remembers seeing it.

If I found that, it's 100% proof.

One-hundred-percent proof is elusive--to the point that I sometimes wonder whether it's even allowed. But just suppose the townsfolk of Rocks Village were entirely and enthusiastically cooperating with me. They would put the word out. People would start going through their photo albums, and asking their grandparents. Old books would be brought out, and old correspondence, and old diaries. The thing would be found, or at least, some mention of it.

And suddenly my case would have a knock-your-socks-off validation.

That doesn't happen. Even without mentioning reincarnation, someone is friendly, but then they don't write back. They might even remember something about it, but they pretend not to have ever heard of it. "Nope, nothing like that, here."

I can't tell you how much of this I ran into. I could take it just so far, and no farther. But the problem is, I'm looking for proof, not just plausibility. I have plenty of plausibility. I need verifications. And it is precisely those verifications you can't get, when people won't go all the way for you.

If people cooperated fully and enthusiastically with my research, I could really show you something. I could show you point after point proven, instead of so many being merely plausible.

And if a frog had wings...

Best regards,

Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.

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