The word conjures its own spell and shadow, even in the bright sunlight. Which begs the question: Can you see a ghost in sunlight?
Those who know, would say yes. Those who don't, would argue that a ghost at any hour of day or night is mere fiction, an overactive imagination—"a bit of undigested beef," to quote the inimitable Scrooge. But to quote right back, I'd say, "methinks thou dost protest too much."
To some of us, the world is a mystical, miraculous place, filled with ghosts of every type and kind. To the skeptic, the world must be dull indeed. For them, there is no mystery, no lingering warmth from a hand that touched this table a hundred years— or a mere week—ago. For them, I suspect even memory seems like cold, weak tea from yesterday morning—passable but nothing to write home about, and definitely not a substitute for a fresh, hot cup of the real stuff.
But the past speaks stronger to some of us than others, and shadows dog our suspicions even in the sunlight. We believe the world is richer for the whispers we're not even sure we heard, because we suspect what's past must surely be connected to the future. We have time—time in a bottle, you might say—to remember, wonder, even ponder the purpose of a tap on the shoulder, a soft caress upon the cheek at midnight—both barely felt—or a shifted trinket upon the shelf, an item replaced from where we last put it.
Of course, for the skeptic, each of these is easily explained or conveniently ignored. Their ghosts are tame-able, obedient to a fault. Their spirits do not interfere, even gently, in their well-planned lives, for their ghosts are nothing more than some misplaced memory, some unresolved intention gone astray, a bit of wind, a dripping pipe. They say those who hesitate to climb a darkened stair or open the attic door are haunted by our own fears.
And perhaps they're right. There are ghosts I dread, even as even I stand trembling eagerly at the possibility of a crack in the door to the other side. For us believers, the spirits may come unbidden, but not necessarily unwelcome, for somewhere in their misty revelations - once we stop fleeing from them—we may look back and find messages and meanings. We're willing to acknowledge that the world we see is not necessarily all the reality that is.
For the skeptic, the world is fact and figure, beyond the shadow of a doubt. But I suspect that of the two of us, they are the more haunted. My ghosts ring the doorbell, knock over the vase, and stare back from the mirror. Mine can be excised, for we have communion. But theirs, I suspect, glide on, forever unseen and silent by their side, despite their determined indifference. For you can never truly dismiss what you cannot imagine.
It's difficult enough to be haunted by what you know and accept. To be forever chained to what you refuse to recognize must be a far worse fate.
The word conjures its own spell and shadow, even in the bright sunlight. Which begs the question: Can you see a ghost in sunlight?Those who know, would say yes. Those who don't, would argue that a ghost at any hour of day or night is mere fiction, an overactive imagination—"a bit of undigested beef," to quote the inimitable Scrooge. But to quote right back, I'd say, "methinks thou dost protest too much." To some of us, the world is a mystical, miraculous place, filled with ghosts of every type and kind. To the skeptic, the world must be dull indeed. For them, there is no mystery, no lingering warmth from a hand that touched this table a hundred years— or a mere week—ago. For them, I suspect even memory seems like cold, weak tea from yesterday morning—passable but nothing to write home about, and definitely not a substitute for a fresh, hot cup of the real stuff.But the past speaks stronger to some of us than others, and shadows dog our suspicions even in the sunlight. We believe the world is richer for the whispers we're not even sure we heard, because we suspect what's past must surely be connected to the future. We have time—time in a bottle, you might say—to remember, wonder, even ponder the purpose of a tap on the shoulder, a soft caress upon the cheek at midnight—both barely felt—or a shifted trinket upon the shelf, an item replaced from where we last put it.Of course, for the skeptic, each of these is easily explained or conveniently ignored. Their ghosts are tame-able, obedient to a fault. Their spirits do not interfere, even gently, in their well-planned lives, for their ghosts are nothing more than some misplaced memory, some unresolved intention gone astray, a bit of wind, a dripping pipe. They say those who hesitate to climb a darkened stair or open the attic door are haunted by our own fears.And perhaps they're right. There are ghosts I dread, even as even I stand trembling eagerly at the possibility of a crack in the door to the other side. For us believers, the spirits may come unbidden, but not necessarily unwelcome, for somewhere in their misty revelations - once we stop fleeing from them—we may look back and find messages and meanings. We're willing to acknowledge that the world we see is not necessarily all the reality that is.For the skeptic, the world is fact and figure, beyond the shadow of a doubt. But I suspect that of the two of us, they are the more haunted. My ghosts ring the doorbell, knock over the vase, and stare back from the mirror. Mine can be excised, for we have communion. But theirs, I suspect, glide on, forever unseen and silent by their side, despite their determined indifference. For you can never truly dismiss what you cannot imagine.It's difficult enough to be haunted by what you know and accept. To be forever chained to what you refuse to recognize must be a far worse fate.Copyright © 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.
Contents