I settled down to sleep, falling into a familiar almost-trance and for the first time I followed an influence in my thoughts which had always cared for me and helped me by regenerating myself. This influence is like a spirit, it has a voice, though not one I recognise as a person from my life, and a kind of ineffable presence. I followed it down and to the left, originating from my head, until I came to a place of quiet, where I saw it starting to read from a silver text, a rede. It had a ritual quality to it, something sacred.
What it read was the life of a great man, a champion of the freedom of the press and a man of great principle who lived with zest and passion and wisdom. A man who had lived an impressive life. Over its shoulder I read along, mere fragments really, just enough to get a sense. Then the text vanished, and the influence disappeared, I heard its voice talking to someone saying “he read the silver rede” and a reply “I have restored it”. Like with many of these things in the spirit world, the effect of my own presence is decidedly destructive.
I rose from my half slumber to take stock of what had just happened, and realised I felt inspired. If the true story of a great life, for it felt true, could be such a vitalising force for the other world, then I would have lived a different life I think. For the first time I looked at my life in a different way, understanding how the best of our personal histories empower influences from the beyond in a sacred way. It gave me something to aspire to.
The best aspects of my own life have been about the search for meditation, making things that other people enjoy, love and faithfulness, and being a positive influence on the net. Little enough to live up to such a grand example. I felt humbled and inspired after the fact to be a witness to the process of regeneration, the rite (because that is how it felt to me) which restored me to freshness and the history that my influences treasure.