Tell Me Your Story about Reincarnation
I was born in Chestertown, Maryland from an American father and a Peruvian mother. At age 2, my parents divorced and I was sent to live in Lima, Peru with maternal grandparents at age 3. I grew up in Lima, and all my studies revolved around Latin American history , nothing really about the US. I came back to the US to stay with friends in Phoenix, AZ. for a few months in 1964 when I was 16 years old and while at their home one evening, I had a very vivid dream about being in a home that I would call southern. One of those with the grand entry and stairs leading up, a big living room/parlor to the left, a huge dining room to the right, straight ahead lead to a grand kitchen, and a porch in the back, bedrooms upstairs. I had never been in or seen one of these type homes and my friend’s home was nothing like it. It moved me, I felt like I had been in this home and it stay with me for a long time. I later looked for photos of similar homes and I could actually draw it and realized they were homes from the civil war era, and quite common in Maryland. I have a tremendous affinity to the Civil War era. I become quite emotional thinking about that period, in particular if I watch a movie of that era, yet I know nothing about it from my studies. I feel as though I lived in that era before. I also feel very connected to black people of that era and any abuse or injustice towards them affects me when I read about it or have seen it in movies, however I do not feel that empathy as much today, which I find odd. Unfortunately, all this is only feelings and emotion that takes me to that time, but no actual memories per se. Wish I could share more.
Carmen G.
I had an odd memory. I was playing my guitar, sitting and facing a wall, with a very old style, big, weird microphone in front of me. I thought it was odd.
At a later time, I heard the song I was playing (Love in Vain) on the radio, and it was the recording I made, which was why the mic was there.
Later still, the first record of what was eventually going to be the two-record collection of all the recordings Robert Johnson made came out, and it showed me doing exactly what I remembered.
Johann M.
It began in 1992 with a sudden pronounced pain in the cartilage just under my Adams apple. It felt as if someone were pressing their finger there and keeping it there all day, placing me in a constant state of dizziness. I went to my general practitioner and he said it was stress related caused by anxiety. He thought I should see psychiatrist, but in the meantime, prescribed a small dosage of Ativan each month. There wasn’t enough money in the budget for psychiatry, and the Ativan seemed to keep the pressure relaxed; and it wasn’t enough to get me addicted; so this went on for five years. Finally, when the pressure began to be intolerable, I agreed to see a professional hypnotherapist.
Like most people, I associated hypnosis with gypsy tents, thick Bulgarian accents, partygoers who feign mastery of the skill, and me clucking like a chicken. But my hypnotherapist worked out of her own home and when I knocked on the door a normal middle-aged woman dressed in a business suit greeted me with a smile. There was no gypsy peasant Renaissance costume, no gold threaded headdress, no heavily jeweled necklace or earrings, and no cheesy Bulgarian accent. Now for those who’ve never encountered a professional hypnotherapy session, it’s all about controlled relaxation by dropping you into a deeper level of consciousness. A therapist will have the patient concentrate on calming each part of their body from their feet to their head. By the time they’ve gone through their entire anatomy, they’re 95% on their way to being hypnotized. The remaining 5% comes from a mental compliance to the process itself. And at a hundred dollars an hour, you best be well on your way to being committed to the adventure before making that appointment.
By the time my hypnotherapist was counting down the remaining seconds of her instructions, I began to worry just how deep of a trance I was under. My mind was still active. I was cognizant of my surroundings even though my eyes were closed. But as she ended the countdown, I let my mind go completely blank. Then I heard her say “Go to the source of your pain.” which is what I mentally did. The first thing I saw was a puritan standing directly in front of me (at this point, I didn’t want to say anything because I felt it was too enigmatic and silly, but my hypnotherapist convinced me to continue). It was daylight, somewhere rural, summertime. He was looking over my shoulder at something and when I turned around, I saw a small town by a body of water. The man standing there wore the traditional puritan clothes: a tall black hat, a light gray woolen jacket and breeches, white stockings, a short black cape, and black shoes with buckles. His hair was blond and worn in the Dutch boy style, his face clean shaven, and his eyes were beady (like Barney Rubbles). He looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties, and as I studied him, I could feel the sun on my face and a light wind blowing at my cape (MY CAPE?). It was then I realized that the man standing there was me. And when I looked down at my body again, I was wearing those same clothes.
My hypnotherapist moved me ahead in time, and I was now sitting inside what appeared to be a local inn. The tables were roughly hewed planks as were the bench type seats. What the favored brew was being served, I haven’t a clue. But I had a mug of it in my hand as I sat watching an older man at another table across the room who was positioned slightly to my left. He was facing in my direction with his back to a large stone fireplace. Between us was a young female server wearing a plain purple dress with three-quarter length sleeves. Her hair was done in a bun and covered with a simple white linen cap that hooded the crown of her head. She kept her back to me while she spoke with the older man. As I observed them, the man half rose out of his seat and hit her with his right fist. She flew backwards and landed on the wooden floor, the top of her head pointing in my direction.
I guess out of instinct, I jumped up to help her. Unfortunately, this turned out to be a real bad move. No sooner did I stand up, when out of the corner of my right eye I saw a gloved hand swinging a strange long knife at my throat. What made it strange was that the knife looked long, thin, and triangular, meaning it had a three sided blade that tapered to a point. The blade didn’t slit my throat from side to side. It was driven in, point first, right below my Adam’s apple, and punched out the back of my neck. The blade was dislodged, and ever so slowly I crumpled to the floor, lying on my left side. From this vantage point, I could see the old man raping the unconscious woman. Beside me stood my attacker, his boots inches from my face. They were brown soft leather that had a funnel top that was turned down, giving it an open bucket, and the weight of this top caused the boot to sag and crease across the calf. I couldn’t move my head, but I did have enough angle to turn my eyes upward and see my attacker (at this juncture, I again didn’t want to say anything because his style of dress didn’t match the time period everyone else’s did). It was more Cavalier, likened to the Musketeer style of clothing with black felt hats with plumes (feathers), a long black cloak, dark red jacket, and loose fitting fancier breeches. His hair was long and curled, and his mustache and hint of goatee were custom cut. He smiled down at me as he wiped my blood from his blade, and in that moment, I died. Instantly, my soul lifted over the scene, and I was then flung skyward.
My hypnotherapist stopped the session there.
What I did do following that session was to research what I had seen, trying to discern if there was any validity to it. What I found out was this: 1) In the 1650’s there was a style of boot worn that matched the one I noticed with the overly large buckets that made the boot sag. 2) During that same time period, there were two types of Puritan dress—a sober version (like the one I wore), and a less extreme version (like my attackers). 3) The color of women’s dresses in the Puritan area came in brown, black, gray, or purple. 4) The knife is called a parry dagger and was most often used in conjunction with a sword—also common to that time period.
Within a week of that regression, the pain in my throat had vanished forever. I was stunned. During our next session I learned something new about reincarnation that scared the hell out of me. It appears that birthmarks in your present lifetime are an indication of trauma from a past life. I don’t possess any such birthmarks below my Adam’s apple. But on the other hand…the back of my neck and under my hairline looks like a hundred red balloons against a pale white sky.
Bruce M.
I have a vague recollection of living in a very nice apt., maybe in Europe, and I was walking thru the apt. and all of the sudden fell over and died. Not sure if it a past life experience or not.
Jane K.
The town was Bolton, Lancashire, UK, an old town but only thought of as industrial, now. When I was two, the Queen visited. I saw her in an open car, surrounded by my landmarks. The landmarks were gone whenever we went back, and I would cry and cry. My mother was angry with that.
I saw old buildings, cobblestones, an old market cross where now there is a war memorial, and a large (open) gate in a huge wall.
A few years later at school I fell from the bars and was knocked out. I saw myself below, unconscious. But I could look towards town and was pulled away towards it. I was outside the wall, picking dandelions for something to eat. We were starving. Someone shouted that the Earl of Derby was here, and we were trampled by horses. I woke up on the floor of the gym at school.
Later, when I was 14 or so, the local paper (Bolton Evening News) ran a centenary spread which featured their oldest photos. One showed the remnants of the town wall, where I remembered it, but it was a ruin. I remember a whole wall. I later learned that the attack on Bolton by the Earl of Derby was an event in the English civil war.
I have other memories, but this is the one that convinced me that my memories were valid. I can’t dis-believe. As a result I have spent the next 50 years exploring what this means for me. At first I thought that it was a vanity, of sorts, but in fact a different point of view has led me to explore many things
Rowan S.
I have always felt an extremely strong connection to the native American community but never knew why. I have also felt like I was a prisoner of some kind in a past life. I’m beyond intolerant of anything tight on my wrists or neck.
Eileen W.
Once I went with my aunt and uncle to get a horse they had bought. I was just along for the ride. I was a teenager when what ever happened took place, but it’s something that has stayed with me. I was riding in the back of the pick up truck and we were just riding along and we went to cross over a big bridge with a lake underneath us when all of a sudden I knew I had been there.
Sonya W.
As a fifteen-year-old I was enamored with the Redford movie “The Great Gatsby”, not for the story or the actors but for the scenery…I felt a powerful sense of longing and wistful sadness for the locations portrayed…it was so familiar. I felt I had walked through some of the rooms in Gatsby’s house…stood on the marble porches and enjoyed the views. Ten years later l was driving across a small bridge over Easton’s Beach in Newport, Rhode Island when I passed out behind the wheel…a friend in the passenger seat grabbed the wheel and safely guided my car to the side of the road where I instantly recovered. About 25 years later, after many significant memories of being a well-dressed, wealthy young man in early 20th century America, I spoke with a friend who “saw things” who said I had previously died in a car accident in the northeastern United States. Soon thereafter I happened across the movie “The Great Gatsby” and recalled my teenaged fascination with the scenic location and found it was filmed in Newport, thus my early attraction to the film…on the heels of this realization, I then came across a written interview with the last private owner of the Hope Diamond who mentioned that she was not worried about the curse of the stone because she had already been cursed with the death of her brother (among other tragedies) who died in a car accident in Newport…on the bridge over Easton’s Beach…exactly where I passed out while driving years ago. He died on the same date upon which I met my one time fiancé 82 years later (and only a few weeks after driving and passing out on the bridge), and the same date upon which I was married 85 years later. The friend who could “see” said that I was that young man/brother who died; my sister (diamond owner) in that life was my fiance in this life, and my mother in that life is my wife in this life…the date of my passing over a century ago was a significant date with both women in this lifetime.
Scott B.