The Door of Memory
That night, I had a
dream.
I was a child again,
in a faded white dress, standing at the edge of a misty path that led deep into
the woods. The wind was soft, the air filled with a scent—like jasmine, or
maybe my mother’s hair when I was small.
A voice whispered,
“Ahead lies the part you left behind.”
I wasn’t afraid. I
walked forward. The ground was soft, warm. With every step, light seemed to
rise from beneath my feet. The mist slowly faded, revealing a single door
standing in the middle of an open field.
It looked like nothing
special—just an old wooden door, weathered, a little cracked.
I reached out and
pushed it open.
Behind it, there
wasn’t a room. There was a sky full of stars.
And in that moment,
memories flooded back—not from this lifetime, but from other places I had seen
in meditation, in childhood dreams, or simply known without ever being told.
I stood at the
doorway, surrounded by a sense of both familiarity and awe.
It felt like being
seen by a star.
And the star said,
with a gentle flicker, “You’ve returned.”
I woke up with my
heart racing.
Not from fear—but from
recognition.
Because I knew, deep
down, that the door was never just in a dream.
It was real.
A threshold of knowing.
Maybe we all have one.
We’ve just forgotten how to find it.
But when we choose to
slow down, to listen, to remember—
The door appears.
And we find ourselves on the other side,
whispering to the forgotten self:
I’m ready now.
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