Reflections on the Sands of Time (Part 1)
Our Collective Consciousness
The Jewish memorial museum in St Kilda exhibits much more than a collection of black and white images of man's plunge into the abyss of damnation; it shines a torch on humanity, and for the most part, illuminates a failure to comprehend the truth of our collective consciousness.
Collective consciousness is the thread that binds humanity. It is a web that connects every life-form that has ever existed with those that are yet to come. This is the truth of our collective consciousness!
The Wisdom of One Man's Insight
A young boy from the local Christian Brothers' College and an elderly Rabbi fixed their gaze upon a photograph of the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz.
The boy - head slightly tilted with brow furrowed; giving the impression he was squinting - turned to his neighbour inquisitively:
"Why is there such division between us?" he said.
"The divisiveness is not between us", gesturing with a forefinger, bending his wrist back and forth between the boy's chest and his own heart, "but within you", came the reply.
Turning to once again face the haunting image of death's welcome mat, the Sage continued.
"Heal yourself and you will have gone a long way toward releasing us from the torment of our past".
The boy - who was fast becoming a man - was then left alone to contemplate the wisdom of one man's insight.
Along the Shores of Port Phillip Bay
All I wanted to do on returning home to Melbourne was take the short drive to St Kilda Beach and walk barefoot along the foreshore, set against the backdrop of Port Phillip Bay. That was in spite of having just spent four months criss-crossing the sand dunes and rocky outcrop of the Middle East and North Africa.
The metallic gate to my home was showing signs of rust - from years of neglect, no doubt. It was one of those jobs I had threatened to do but never quite managed, despite the very best of intentions.
I didn't bother to unpack; it was enough to rest my suitcase on the floor of the walk-in wardrobe by the en suite. There was time enough for a cursory glance at the mirror to ensure my appearance was suitable for the trendy seaside suburb known as the pulse of this cosmopolitan city. Walking toward my car, a silver Subaru, I noticed the left front tyre was a little low, but not enough to warrant immediate attention; another one of the jobs on that ever-expanding 'to do' list.
I found a car park by the doorsteps of Greasy Joe's, a renowned Melbourne eatery. It would then be a short stroll of past Luna Park, across Beach Road and beyond Donovan's Fine Dining to the shores of Port Phillip Bay.
Retracing the Footsteps of My Childhood
It was a warm day in Melbourne - well warm enough by Melbourne standards. My attention was momentarily distracted by the Sun's reflection on the wristwatch given to me by my father some 25 years earlier. It was not yet midday. I looked left and then I looked right, before commencing my journey to Port Melbourne, retracing the footsteps of my childhood.
The breeze from Antarctica swirled in and around the bay, much as it had done since time immemorial.
The months away, with its irregular timetable of dinner and drinks that led to breakfast and lunches began to take its toll, and my eyelids felt the strain of being active in the southern hemisphere.
Before we were married, Jo-Anne would often scold me for my childishness, especially that sense of humour. She would nominate her 13 year-old-boy as an able ally with whom I might play, if ever adult company proved too sophisticated.
I clutched at the fine particles of sand between my toes in a sentimental gesture of being one with terra firma. Having done so, I allowed the spirit of past summers to wrest the fatigue from my fading memoir.
Am I going to finally come face to face with Destiny today?
Will it manifest in the form of a lamp abandoned by some demonic Blue Gin?
You know, the same one that kept Jeannie imprisoned on Coco Beach for thousands of years before Major Nelson rescued her.
While in North Africa, my colleagues and I journeyed to the ancient city of Thebes, modern-day Luxor. I felt a sensed a familiarity, and yet it was my very first visit to the region. A small group of travellers had gathered at the base of a sculpture, dug deep into the side of a huge bolder.
I tapped James - a fastidiously meticulous young engineer - on the shoulder and politely enquired where we were, as he was the guardian of our one and only map.
"The Valley of the King", he replied, matter-of-factly.
I smiled and mischievously whispered, "So, I'm home then!"
James, too, was familiar with that sense of humour.
He rolled his eyes much like a teenager after being scolded for missing curfew.
It was then my ever-active imagination paused to contemplate the notion of time as the fourth dimension. Sure, HG Wells' descriptive narrative was a favourite, but nothing more than that magical 'contraption' ever entered my imagination.
I closed my eyes and began to marvel at a time when the Egyptian god Ramses walked the Earth with mortal feet; a time when Hebrew slaves felt the lash of the whip - delivered by ruthless taskmasters - all the while crying out for a Deliverer; a time when street merchants fed the masses with their dates, dips and exotic potions nurtured by the source of all life - the mighty Nile.
Yes, in this very space but a different time the greatest civilisation the world has ever known was busily chiselling its story onto the pages of our history. One such chapter lay before us, encrypting the grandeur of life lived in majestic splendour.
The glory of Egypt is within you my Son.
I opened my eyes, startled by a voice.
