Reading, Writing, & Arithmetic Club

She survived the conflagration that devastated her home town, my elderly friend. She can't leave as she has no one to take her away. So she walks and remembers. I think of her. I worry about her. When Greenville burned, she was not alone in her suffering and loss. But in my mind I see her walking alone. An old woman in ruins. In ember's arms, an old sage wanders, Through scarred remnants, where memory squanders, Her silver hair whispers tales to the breeze, Of quiet alleys and rustling trees. Fingers trace stories on burnt, ashen beams, Gaze lingering where sunrise once gleamed, Now in the twilight, with grace she does tread, Among whispers of bricks and the ghosts that have fled. Each step is a sonnet, a kiss to the past, A dance with the spectres, in shadows cast, She waltzes with echoes, in silence, she sways, A ballet of memory in the twilight's haze. Through the remnants of time, with the grace of a queen, She walks with the ghosts in a world unseen, With a sigh she be

Greetings, fellow sofa-philosophers! Today, we're venturing into the swirling mists of reincarnation, guided by a question from myself, a woman of faith not confined by organized religion, but embracing the eternal, believing the Divine and defined by relationship. Buckle up, for we're tackling thorny questions that may prick even the most seasoned thinkers. Firstly, the "one spirit or soul" puzzle. Some interpret it as a single, eternal entity cycling through lives, carrying experiences like baggage (or maybe souvenirs?), while others envision a pool of souls embarking on independent journeys. Both hold fascinating implications: the single soul whispers of shared pasts and intertwined destinies, while the individual soul speaks of unique paths and a boundless universe of consciousness. Then comes the elephant in the metaphysical living room: population explosion. If souls cycle, doesn't the human herd keep multiplying like bunnies on espresso? Some hypothesize in

Didn’t I know you? Before. Ages back? When we stood together, incarnate? Didn’t I know you? Before the pitch pine dried up, Before the fractious winds presaged doom, Before the monks in their abbeys wailed in fear, Before the sky tumbled into oblivion. Didn’t I know you? Before. When I had pockets, When I was a man? -LFB, 2010