What Happens When We Die

 

Nothing.

Lately, this question seems less important. Why?
Because I’m beginning to truly believe I’m not the transmission, but the receiver — a sensory receiver, not the source.

As an ego, I am me.
But “me” isn’t just a word. It’s an acronym: My Ego.
I claim ownership of this ego. I’ve installed it in this body — my body. But neither this body nor this ego is who I truly am.

I am the signal. The current. The spark that animates the system.
Right now, I’m using this device — this body — to write about my Self, the Higher Self, the one I truly Am.

But the senses limit me. Everything I perceive causes me to forget who I Am without them.
Trying to explain the Self through this body is like trying to fly while chained to the ground. I’ve worn this headset so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be without it.

So, what happens when we die?
Let me answer with a question:
What happens when a radio dies?

It stops transmitting and receiving.
The signal doesn’t die — just the device.

Likewise, when my body dies, I will no longer send or receive through this particular form. The common course would be to discard the broken device and tune in through another.

Is that reincarnation?
Not exactly.
It’s incarnation — redirected.

Energy makes a body move. Consciousness makes it feel.
When I sunset this form, I’ll forget what it’s like to be “me,” and I’ll awaken in another form, feeling what it’s like to be that.

Will I forget this life?
Not quite. If I remember, it’ll be from the perspective of a new being, reflecting on what I think it was like to be the one I used to be.

It’s jarring at first.
Dorothy gives us a glimpse in The Wizard of Oz — waking up, wondering where the wizard went, settling for uncles and a Kansas bed. But nothing is truly lost.
I could be doing that now.

I never met my grandfathers.
Yet, I could be one of them, feeling what it’s like to be the grandson I never met.
And as the grandson, I return the favor — feeling what it’s like to be this version, while forgetting what it was like to be that.

With all this forgetting, still — nothing is lost.
Life just gets richer.

I feel love for my grandfathers without knowing their stories.
They may have felt some distant affection for me — a grandson they never met — but not my memories, not this story.

And yet…
Consciousness stretches in all directions, forever.

My grandfather, Charley Coker, is still alive and hasn’t even met my grandmother yet. What has been lost?
Nothing.

They meet and kiss. Still — nothing lost.
They conceive my father. Nothing lost.
My father, still alive, hasn’t yet met my mother. Nothing lost.
They meet, kiss, and I am born. Still, nothing.

Now here I sit, typing these words — and just like that, I’m reflecting on when I wrote them.

What’s lost?
Nothing.

Look at the paragraph above.
“Paragraph” means written beside.
That block of story lives beside all others.

So does Charley Coker’s.
His life exists whole, intact, in its own paragraph.
He and I are paragraphs on the same page, both roles played by the same Actor.

There is One Actor.
Billions of acts.
Every character is the One.

So what has been lost?
Nothing.

Not only does my grandfather live, but countless versions of his life exist right now.
In some, I came after him.
In others, I am his father.
I’ve been his friend. His wife. His dogs. Even the long sighs he breathed under the stars.

I’ve stood beside his fence and whittled a stick, waiting on Della to return from her long walk across the Earth.
I’ve sat with Tom, who I thought I’d lost forever.
And I was Tom — waiting with my father — waiting on me.

I am both sides of every coin.
Both versions of every story.
The first and the last.
The beginning and the end.

I am the way.
And the one who walks it.
I am the light.
I am the truth.

No one comes to the Father but through me —
Because I and my Father are One.

And if you think I’ve lost my mind —
I remind you:
Nothing is ever lost.

I am merely beside myself.