Atlantis Rising

How a Lost Continent Found Me

I fell asleep last night listening to "Sleep With Me," a podcast designed to bore you unconscious. Mission accomplished. The host, Scooter, described his hike through an Oakland park, his soothing drone the perfect lullaby. Somewhere in the first hour, I drifted away—not unlike the lost continent of Atlantis, sinking beneath the waves of consciousness.

But unlike the legendary continent, I would return, and Atlantis would rise in my dreams.

When Dreams Become Memories

In my dream, I left my office for the day but was unable to remember where I'd parked. I searched for the enclosed skybridge connecting one office building to another. The dream scenario transformed, and the pedestrian bridge became a gateway. Suddenly, I wasn't simply crossing between office buildings—I was traversing time.

The buildings morphed into magnificent granite structures, and I realized I was walking through the capital city of Atlantis. But I wasn't a visitor, I was narrating a documentary as I guided a film crew through streets I somehow knew intimately.

This wasn't my first voyage to Atlantis. When I was five years old, I experienced what I can only describe as a memory that wasn't mine. I stood on a veranda perched on a hillside overlooking a protected harbor in Atlantis. Below us, a sailing ship entered the harbor, its painted sails dropping as rows of oars emerged to guide it to the loading docks. The vision was so vivid, so detailed, I took it to be real, and that memory has stayed with me for a lifetime.

On the surface of it, I dreamed about a mythical civilization. So what? We all have strange dreams. But don't let it fool you. My dream isn't about the life I've lived—it's about a life I wish I'd lived. Or perhaps, a life I did live, millennia ago.

Bridges Between Worlds

Atlantis dreams visit me periodically, like old friends who drop by unannounced. In one dream, I sailed a small riverboat down one of the canals of the capital city. Other times, like last night, I'm walking through grand buildings whose architecture defies historical categorization.

I wonder now if my first "visions" of Atlantis at age five could have been dreams I had the night before, only remembered at the moment I thought I was "seeing" them. Memory is fickle that way—sometimes what we think we remember is actually a memory of a memory, distorted by time and retelling.

Yet the clarity remains startling. In last night's dream, I wasn't just observing—I was narrating, explaining the significance of these structures to others, as if I possessed knowledge beyond my waking self. The granite buildings weren't just buildings; they were landmarks I knew as intimately as my own neighborhood.

I explained the purpose of each structure, the significance of the carvings adorning their walls, and the history behind their construction. My knowledge didn't seem miraculous—it was mundane, like knowing the location of your childhood bedroom.

The Shaman's Revelation

I once met a shaman in a dream—yes, dreams within dreams, like Russian nesting dolls of the subconscious. After being smudged and rattled (more pleasant than you might imagine), I was granted three questions.

"The remaining question is about some memories I had as a child," I told her. "I remembered a life that was not mine but was not entirely foreign to me. Memories of a previous life."

"Atlantis," she said without hesitation.

Her certainty startled me. "You know about those memories?"

She nodded knowingly. "Atlantis is a memory of a life lived in what you think of as ancient times. Those memories first belonged to one of your ancestors and have been recorded in genetic material passed down to you over millennia."

Could it be? Could memories truly be encoded in our DNA, passed down like eye color or height? Perhaps our most profound experiences leave an imprint not just on cultures but on the very cells making up our memory banks.

Living with Ancient Memories

What does one do with memories of a place that supposedly never existed? A place that historians dismiss as Plato's allegory rather than archaeological fact?

I'm not claiming to be the reincarnation of an Atlantean noble. (Actually, I do exactly that, but I've never told anyone before now.) I'm not starting a cult or writing a manifesto. I'm simply acknowledging that something unusual has happened throughout my life—these persistent visions of a civilization that feels as real to me as the home where I grew up.

Perhaps this is why I'm drawn to ancient history and quantum physics—both fields that grapple with the nature of reality and time. When I listen to podcasts about the measurement problem in quantum mechanics (even if they ultimately knock me unconscious), I'm searching for answers--for understanding. 

How can observation affect reality? How can memory transcend individual experience?

I once wrote that "we live in a fascinating world full of exciting opportunities, and that world is all there is—there's nothing more. To make the most of this marvelous gift, you must follow your natural curiosity about anything that intrigues you."

My curiosity led me to Atlantis—or perhaps Atlantis found me. Either way, these dreams have enriched my life with mystery and wonder. They've reminded me that humanity's story is longer and stranger than our history books suggest. They also hint that there may be more to life than we realize.

The Circular Journey

The shaman in my dream said something else that stays with me: "Love is the most beneficial living condition for humans. Most humans seem to want it and yet have no understanding of how to find it. When they do find it, it's usually accidental."

Perhaps the same is true of connections to the past. We don't seek them out—they find us by accident, rising unexpectedly from the depths of consciousness like a continent thought lost forever.

As I write this in the early morning hours, woolly-headed like a sheep in a wind tunnel, I wonder how many others carry genetic memories they can't explain. How many of us dream of places we've never been, in times we couldn't have lived? 

Einstein would say that as we move through space, we must also move through time. Perhaps, we're all connected by invisible bridges spanning space and time?

The next time you dream of something impossibly familiar, something that feels less like imagination and more like remembrance, pay attention. You might be experiencing the rising of your own Atlantis—memories encoded in the spiraling ladder of your DNA, waiting for the right moment to emerge from the depths.

And if you happen to fall asleep only to dream of other times and foreign places... know that you're on The Circular Journey, connecting us all to what came before and what lies ahead.