In the ’70s, Lesley and I went to England, where she was born. I had friends, 3 brothers from Southern California, who had rented an old brick house in Mapledurham, a small village along the Thames, near Redding. One night my friend Michael took us over to a visit a small family in a nearby house. It was a cold night.
It turned out to be a thatched cottage, not your picture-perfect variety (like this one here), but still something authentic. The doorway was low — a 6-footer would have to duck to get in. Inside, there was a fire burning in the fireplace, which was just part of the floor, casting orange shadows on the walls. The ceiling was really low, with whitewashed horizontal beams holding up the loft above.
I felt a hit, as if I’d stepped back into a past life. The warmth, the coziness, the feeling of protection — the same qualities that I believe our ancestors created and treasured — it felt familiar. (My mom’s family is from Wales.)
I’ll have feelings once in a while in different homes. When everything feels right, everything is working in unison: what you see, what you smell, what you touch, what you feel…
And if you’ll pardon the whoo-whoo factor here, I think that we have memories in our genes, and that once in a while — via meditation, or enhanced consciousness, or just the right mood — we tap into these cellular memories. We get a feeling that doesn’t come from conscious memories. Hey, I’ve been here before…
