“Tell me what you think of this outfit, honestly,” I asked my son. “Honestly? You look like you’re in a hip-hop video and about to bust a few moves. Dishonestly, you look great.” I had on white, enormous sneaker-boots, a sequined black top, a black circle skirt and black leggings. Dancing did feel like a possibility. But, could I leave the house and buy a litre of milk? Maybe my black velvet jacket would tone the look down a bit, if I could just find my black velvet jacket, which, after ripping my closet apart, I couldn’t seem to.

The phone rang and it was my mom.
“How’re you doing, love? I seem to have lost an egg.”

“An egg? I’ve lost a jacket.”

“A jacket seems a reasonable thing to lose, but how could I lose an egg?”

“Where did you last see it?”

“On the kitchen counter. I was about to fry it for lunch, and I remember thinking as I held it in my hand, what a beautiful egg, so perfectly ovoid and freckled.”

“That’s a strange thought to have, mom.”

“I know. But I did have it. Then I put it down on the counter, reached down, pulled out a fry pan from the cupboard and when I straightened up, the egg was gone.”

“I guess you’ve looked all over the kitchen and checked the eggs in the fridge? Did you put it back in the carton?”

“There’s a missing egg from the carton, like there should be. The kitchen!? Deb’s been down here helping me look. She’s been flipping up the couch cushions and rifling through my closet.”

“It sounds like that egg has just slipped into another dimension, been sucked into a vortex, along with my jacket.”

I wandered into my kitchen and told my mom there was an egg on the counter. “Was your egg dark brown?”

“It was light brown. Let’s not get ridiculous here.”

I start to wonder with this kind of thing, is my dad is trying to contact us, give us a message or something? Tell us where the bag with the money is. But mom hadn’t had any really odd dreams lately, just the usual, her and dad watching TV together or doing domestic ordinary things. Her parallel dream life. And dad hasn’t been in my dreams for a couple of years now. And what would the message of a missing jacket be?

I think in my case the message might be that I have 37 dresses, 32 skirts—6 of them kilts—15 jackets or cardigans, 28 tops and let’s not forget the 18 coats. That is more than enough clothing for one little velvet jacket to feel crushed, unloved and ignored, and decide to dematerialize and reappear in someone else’s closet. Someone more deserving of it, perhaps. Someone with only a couple of blazers hanging up.

That just seems the most likely theory of what transpired. Don’t you think? As for the egg? That was probably dad saying, “Enough with the eggs already! Live a little. Eat a ham on rye.”

Sorry about all this metaphysical stuff. I’ve just finished reading a book on reincarnation, and what a depressing read it was. The cover tells us that the author, Michael Newton, is a hypnotherapist with a PH.D in psychology, just in case you thought he sat down one day and decided to wing a book on reincarnation. He’s done exhaustive research. Certainly it’s exhausting to read. If anyone can make this astonishing material seem dull, it’s this guy.

He’s come to the conclusion, after many, many past life regressions that most of us are on the lower rungs on the ladder of development and evolution as souls, mere evolutionary babes. He can’t count the number of times people have said to him, before he puts them under, they feel that they are old souls with a multitude of lives behind them, who just can’t seem to get the hang of life. Their destiny is lost in translation from heaven to here. Once hypnotized, their hunches prove correct and they reveal screw up after screw up, lifetime upon lifetime. And you know, the funny thing is, I also consider myself to be an old soul who is, inexplicably and strangely, a babe in the woods of life. Like countless millions of others, apparently.

So, not what you would call an uplifting read, then. But I kept on reading it not for his dull words, but for the really weird stories of the subjects on his couch.

The book really calls into question the whole validity of reincarnation as some superb master plan for bettering ourselves. If there’s so little progress being made by most souls, all over the world over thousands of years, reincarnation seems a bit of a joke, doesn’t it? Everyone apparently starts out with high hopes and strong resolve that this time, after extensive coaching from their guides, they’re going to get it right, stick with the plan, meet the right people, notice the clues planted just for them, (the chance encounter, the shiny bracelet, those come hither eyes, etc.) and make the right moves. Yet, by forty it seems many of us have lost the plot and made a complete shambles of things. Again.

I’m a sucker for this weird type of book. It appeals to the detective in me. Apparently all will be revealed at death, but I want answers now. Let’s reduce the mysteries of the occult to a meat and potatoes everyday reality. Why not? We flip on a switch and the lights go on. Why not vortexes to other dimensions and past lives as a given? And if any of you come across a cute black velvet jacket with ruffles at the neck and cuffs slung across the back of a café chair, that wasn’t there a minute ago…