{"id":62341,"date":"2026-06-14T05:00:56","date_gmt":"2026-06-14T04:00:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/?p=62341"},"modified":"2026-06-13T19:03:45","modified_gmt":"2026-06-13T18:03:45","slug":"baby-postman","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/baby-postman.html","title":{"rendered":"The Baby Postman"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Every night, the unconscious transmits to you truths that the brain makes up when you wake up: I call it dressing<\/a>.<\/em> To remember our dreams as you really made them, we must peel the veneer, exhume the dead years, identify the protagonists … and grasp the lesson. I call it decoding<\/a><\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n1952<\/h4>\n

The dream she sent me unfolded incomprehensibly, in disorder: the fault was in the dressing<\/a>. I relived through the menu scenes of my childhood that I had completely forgotten.<\/p>\n

The first, I was 3 years old: summer holidays in Savoie, at Grand Bornand. My parents let me play with my elders, seven-year-old twins — the age of reason, supposedly. Boy and girl: false twins. To be fake, kind of sneaky and hidden, you could say they were. They still are.<\/p>\n

Behind our shawl was a washhouse. It was very hot that summer. I wore a pink and blue romper, with lighter circles where bees were flying. My sister climbed up to the wash house. He needed a few inches to reach the slope of the roof. My brother climbed up to help him.<\/p>\n

He stood on the sloping part of the wash-house, where the laundry is soaped. Were there any traces of soap left? He slipped. My sister fell. Her head hit a corner of the wash-house. She collapsed on the floor, unconscious. As soon as my brother ran to find mom. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, believing his sister to be dead.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I stayed close to her. The infernal trio of Rochefort and I placed my little hand on her mouth. Her breath came back. She woke up with a smile on her face. “I saw the angels,<\/em>” she told me. “There was one who looked like you.<\/em>” Her forehead was adorned with a pretty bump that she still has, 74 years later.<\/p>\n

I dreamt of other forgotten scenes from my early childhood. In each of them, I was working miracles while an adult voice kept telling me: “<\/em>Baby postman! All your life you will be a baby postman!”<\/strong><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\nToo Big For Me<\/h4>\n

At these words, it seemed to spring out of my little body to incarnate me in the gigantic body of an angel<\/a> or an archangel<\/a>. I am not saying that I was this angel, I had taken place in the consciousness of the angel and inside his giant body<\/a>. And there I saw myself at different ages of my life, performing miracles, one by one.<\/p>\n

I could see the years passing by on a paper calendar like there were years ago. Those of the PTT<\/a>French historic name for Telegraph and Telephone Posts<\/span> were the most beautiful.<\/p>\n

The leaves of the days are being torn off at full speed, too quickly to be visible; I see the year in a fixed plan for a short moment, and now it\u2019s time for a miracle. The scenes follow one another in a strange order, not chronological. When I had lived the initiation of arcane 13<\/a>, I found about twenty lives, again with no logic nor chronologic order.<\/p>\n

There is no time, one incarnates in the past or the future, and this is not arbitrary.<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n1954<\/h4>\n

1954 – I am 5 years old in the playground of the nursery school. A big, round boy is the laughing stock of brawling kids. They cry out to him: Big sloppy ball! The kid rolls on the ground and the laughter doubles. Big sloppy ball!! I intervene. I am as high as three cocks on my knees, nevertheless I disperse an armada with kicks and fists. I help the martyr to get up.<\/p>\n

Through his tears shines a gratitude that expands my heart. His name is Jean-Claude, it\u2019s him, it\u2019s Devic<\/a>. We immediately became friends with life, with death. Nothing could separate us. We remained brothers until his departure. And even afterwards. Always I will talk to him, I will listen to him, I will act for him as he does for me where he is<\/a>.<\/p>\n

To life, to death.<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve seen others, and still others. What\u2019s the point of telling it? This miracle worker is the one talking to you 70 years later. I have never stopped working miracles. Let me tell you, it\u2019s not my fault. Something takes possession of me in an emergency, calm engulfs me, I act clearly, clearly and precisely. I am acting. I am not the one doing it. Not me who knows.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"JCF, XS, JCD : the Infernal Trio of Rochefort<\/a><\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Baby Postman<\/h4>\n

Me, sitting stupidly at the bottom of my consciousness, I have experienced it so many times! They have passed through my mind in a saraband, a powerful torrent that no barrier can stop. Who commands me? I call him My Captain. He\u2019s the boss. He\u2019s the one who always yells at me this nonsense: “Baby postman! All your life you\u2019ll be a baby postman!”<\/p>\n

Tonight I wake up at 3 o’clock. The image I just got is hilarious. I\u2019m having fun on my own for three minutes without being able to stop. It\u2019s not b\u00e9b\u00e9 facteur<\/strong><\/a>baby postman<\/span><\/em> he\u2019s yelling at me. It\u2019s benefactor<\/em> <\/strong><\/span><\/a>!!<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"Benefactor ? Three-year?<\/span><\/h5>\n

The Author<\/h2>\n