One of the things I did in Cuba was visit Ernest Hemingway's home.
I've long been fascinated by the expat writers of the 1920s: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, Dos Passos, Cummings, and I was thrilled to visit "Finca Vigia", which means lookout house.
It's a true compound: acres of gated privacy and palm trees, a large house, servants' quarters, lookout tower, outbuildings, patios, a swimming pool, even a fishing boat in dry storage.
As we were on a private tour, I got a chance to tune into the energy of Hemingway's spirit—it's a practice I know many of you also do, when you are in places where famous people have lived.
Most of his energy was condensed in his writing room—Hemingway wrote at a standing desk while standing on an animal skin, so as to be imubed with the animal's power. He drank while he wrote, and when he could not write anymore, he rested on a bed with a dark blue coverlet.
As I tuned into the energy of his objects and his spirit, my first sense was of his dominant personality, which did not surprise me. Under that was need for compulsive organization, a kind of obsession of doing things "the right way." Under that, a sense of being lost—this was something he did not want to show. And under that, the despair of never feeling understood.
This is what I received, my own impression outside of all the many anecdotes about him.
I felt compassion for his suffering, and wished him healing in his next life—I imagine he's reincarnated already, and is here among us.
Hemingway was one of the most acclaimed writers of his time—world-renowned for his adventures, a personality bigger than life. And yet a person working on his soul growth.
As we all are.
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