In the Nature of Time

by Christopher Lovejoy on November 27, 2011

Her face suddenly appeared up-close and personal inside my field of dreams. As it was, this young Polynesian face was not a pretty face, but it clearly had the potential to be so.

Rather, the skin on her face had many of the telltale signs of being dehydrated. It was sunburned. It appeared both taut and slightly withered. A couple of staph infections were also evident.

Barely conscious, she whimpered. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips parted feebly.

I woke with a start, feeling a strong sense of foreboding. Glancing at the sky, I noticed the coming dawn, made conspicuous by a faint light spreading diffusely across the horizon.

Since arriving on this island, I was coming to know things even before they happened.

I was almost sure that this vision was a foretelling of events to come, and I was almost sure it was somehow connected with the baby doll and baby bottle that I had found.

I slipped quickly out of my security blanket and shivered, sitting naked on the edge inside the cliff for one long moment before climbing down the ladder from the cave and walking to my home base. As I strolled back to what I considered my true home along the shore, I pondered the nature of time.

I wondered how it was that I was able to know things before they occurred.

On the surface of things, this unconventional, inconvenient little fact seemed more than a little odd – until I deigned to dig a little deeper for a broader explanation from a higher perspective.

I mean, why couldn’t I know things before they happened?

True, in times past, my anticipation of rain, prompting me to run for cover before it started, might have had a physiological explanation, and true, in my so-called past, my anticipation of a song by humming it moments before hearing it on a radio could have been a coincidence, but …

What about that time when 5:05 flashed red in my mind’s eye just moments before picking up my digital radio and looking at its display face and seeing that exact same time?

Mere coincidence? Not likely.

And when, not if, we can know things before they happen, what did this say about the nature of time?

I recalled the story of a man who had been declared clinically dead and came back to tell the tale.

Out of body, he saw the world from a state of pure consciousness, in an ocean of spaciousness and timelessness, free of the confines and constraints of space and time.

On a moment’s notice, he could be anywhere he wished, at any time – past, present, or future.

It was as if he had risen above a flatland of creatures living in two dimensions.

To be sure, these creatures know left and right, back and forth, but have no clue about what is up or down. Someone living in three dimensions would have a bird’s-eye view of those living in flatland.

Likewise, someone with a bird’s-eye view of four dimensions would have no conditioned sense of urgency inside a four-dimensional box that contained a past, present, or future.

In a realm that extended beyond four dimensions, every moment could be felt as an eternal moment, where events occurred simultaneously everywhere and everywhen inside an infinite, eternal field of possibilities that proffered total freedom of choice – provided, of course, that you had developed your consciousness enough to appreciate this freedom. Inside the box of 4D, every moment in time can certainly be construed or measured as discrete in a linear progression or regression.

But only if you felt constrained by the dimension of time.

I surmised that the rested, relaxed, receptive part of you that could rise and dwell naturally and spiritually above the restrictions of space and time in those moments of peace or bliss was also that part of you that could pull back spontaneously and anticipate events before they actually happened.

I looked forward to meeting this young woman and doing everything I could to help her.

Her presence, even if sickly, would be a welcome respite from my relentless isolation.

In the hours and days ahead, I would be paying close attention to that small voice within.

To that unerring voice of intuition, which all of us have, but only some of us foster.


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