How do I know I have a soul? You cannot know by seeing it or touching it. Your soul might whisper to you, but even then you could just be hearing echoes of your own voice.
So the soul may be a fiction? The soul isnít a fiction just because itís invisible. Look. Suspended in a shaft of light is the outline of an intricate spiderweb anchored between two bushes. It gleams and ripples with the slightest breeze.
A spider made this web. You can see her work but you donít see the spider. She holds a tiny thread that tells her when anything lands in the web. Where has the soul gone? It doesnít matter as long as the connection exists.
You still may be imagining you have a soul. But thatís the wonder. Nature imagines spiders. Imagine big ones and small ones, smooth ones and hairy ones, those that live in the air, water, and earth, those colored white and black and every shade in between.
Think of baby spiders that fly on gossamer threads in the spring while giant water spiders dive to the bottom of a pond and catch fish. We are foolish to think the spider is a thing. It is a shifting whirl of qualities, ever changing and fascinating. The soul is like that, too. However you imagine it, it will take on that quality and still have infinite potential left over.
When you ask, ĎWhere is my soul?í the answer isnít a place but a potential. The soul is wherever it is, has been, and will be.
You cannot know for certain whether the spider that made the web was white, yellow, or red, big or small, male or female, yet that shouldnít stop you from knowing that it is real. I have no idea what my soul looks like, either, or what lay across the boundary of death. All you have is an invisible thread. Is it enough?
Adapted from Life After Death: The Burden of Proof, by Deepak Chopra (Harmony Books, 2006).