Grandfather…

We are never truly alone.

We are reunited with our loved ones again and again.

You are immortal.

How do I know?

My Grandfather taught me…

I am an Anglo-Australian woman with blonde hair (OK, it is touched up to hide the gray, but I refuse to fade as I get older!) and blue eyes. My biological ancestry is a Celtic mix of Irish, Scottish, Yorkshire and Cornish. I was taught to be proud of my English and Scottish ancestry. I was taught to be proud that I am 5th generation Australian. I was taught about the alcoholism that came with that ancestry. I was not taught about how white people dispossessed and killed aboriginal people for land, and my Irish ancestry was not advertised. In a lot of ways, as Australians, we are still not far enough from those colonial times when pubs had signs advertising “No dogs, No blacks, No Irish.”

But as I stood on the grass at Rhinebeck after another life-altering past-life regression with Dr Brian Weiss, my current-day, Celtic-derived self was still overshadowed by the me of the past. I knew I was taller and fitter and stronger. I held my head proudly and testosterone flowed through my body. Dark hair flowed down my back in a dark river that shone in the sunshine. I walked with other feet that knew the shape of the Earth beneath.

“How did you know your Grandfather preferred you to your brothers?” asked another participant.

“Because I was the best.” I answered.

My present-day self cringed at the lack of humility – the arrogance. My Navajo self lifted his face to the sun and knew the truth. I was the oldest. I was the fittest. I was the strongest. I was the most intelligent. I revelled in looking after my tribe. It was my place. One day I would be an elder… just like my Grandfather. I could see the truth reflected in the firelight of his eyes as the tribe sat together many night times… listening to the stories…

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Image: Campfire by xannca-d7ap3af, DeviantArt, 2015

But it was not to be. Not this life time.

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Past Life Regression Therapy training… the aftermath!

“Learn everything you can from the past, and then let it go. If, earlier in your life, others could not express their love to you, it was because they were blocked, not because of some defect in you.” Dr Brian Weiss, 2015

“And I will awaken you by counting up from 10 to 1… with each number you will feel more and more alert… 1…. 2… 3…”

My face was wet with the tears of my grief… and horror. What had I done?

“4… 5… 6…”

I gently released the experience of that life… a high ranking girl with aspirations to the priesthood… and brought the healing back with me.

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Image: Introspect by Ramasamy Chidambaram at freeimages.com

“7… 8…”

My baby sister was not gone. I had left her to her fate without a thought… and she was sitting right beside me.

“9… 10…”

I opened my eyes and her dark velvety eyes looked right back at me.

“Are you OK?”

“I… I… I…” deep breath. “I was Indian. We were together. You were my little sister and I was a … shitty big sister. I thought you were a pest. I am so sorry. I didn’t look after you and I should have. I am so sorry.”

A river of tears poured from my heart.

In some quiet corner of my mind, I wondered if she thought I had lost it… crazy or opportunistic… it didn’t matter. My heart was the open wound you feel when you lose your child and find her again.

And then the miracle happened.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I thought you would think I was crazy. When I met you, I saw my mother’s eyes. I thought maybe you were my mother.” Bhavi’s tears mixed with mine. “I forgive you. I love you.”

I held her and rocked her like she was still the baby in the orange tunic I had just left. “I love you too.”

We cried and cried, and like any good mother should, I supplied the tissues for snotty noses from the depths of my suitably stocked handbag. The tissues rained down like confetti at a wedding.

Then Bhavi lifted her dewy eyes to mine with wonder “It’s gone… that feeling. I don’t feel unloved anymore. It’s gone.”

 

 

PS The third miracle was that in searching for an image that looked like Bhavi in India in the 1500s, I found her again… in a free image on the internet… this is exactly how she looked to me.

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Breakfast at Omega

Breakfast was uneventful – a group of pleasant people enjoying an organic breakfast. I had only been here hours and already I could feel my spirit relaxing into this soulful environment of gentle voices and gentle manners. Giant fans whirled lazily overhead in the beautiful timber dining hall. I idly wondered how many Americans were nostalgic for the summer camps of their childhood. As an Australian, this was a foreign environment with unknown rules. I released all expectations and allowed for whatever to happen… to happen. Magic was in the air.

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Image: Tranquility, Anne Marie McGlasson, 2015

Volunteers scrambled to make sure we got our breakfast. The kitchen was run with military precision. There was a ripple of disconcerted murmurs amongst the breakfast diners as they realised that meat was served only twice a week. The news was even worse if you had a sweet tooth. I could see how desert could become a celebration if it was only served twice a week. I found boiled eggs to add to my spinach leaves. I was happy.

And the coffee drinkers were happy. Yes! Thanks to Dr Brian Weiss, there was coffee. We were to find out that some years prior, he had carefully explained to administrators that the workshop was uncomfortable for people suffering withdrawl symptoms. The coffee machine sat side by side with organic juices. I went for the juice.

My new friend returned with her breakfast and the entourage she had gathered around her since her arrival. I expected soul connections, after all this was a ‘Past Life’ workshop, but I thought that was pretty efficient for overnight.

She gave me a pretty smile and turned her big brown eyes on me.

“Hello, my name is Bhavi.”

“Pabi?”

“Bhavi… Bhavi…” she said, giving me a chance to tune my ears into her name and her liquid Indian accent “but some people have trouble with that… you can call me Bobbie if you choose.”

What she didn’t know is that my mother’s name is Bobbie.

What I didn’t know was that she looked at me and recognized the eyes of her mother.

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Go back to the moment the problem first began… part 2

“Go back to the moment the problem first began.” I knew the story so well. The story of the night I was raped. How many years had it taken me to call it rape? To acknowledge the truth? It ran like a movie in my head. I could see the flames of my rage and I wanted to burn it all down, burn the house down, and hear him scream as the flames took him too. I was scared to go there again. Scared of what I was capable of, even in my own head. I drew myself back from the destructive edge of hatred and the burning rage that was burning me too. I knew how to ignore it but I didn’t know how to heal it.

“Look further” the psychologist said… and so I looked further… further back… to the point at which it began… to the point at which I began.

I was confused. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. I knew I had just been born, I could see me as a baby… but I could also see me on the other side of a veil.

“What is this? Where am I? Am I meant to be here?”

“What do you see?” she asked.

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Image: Star child by JamesF63, DeviantArt

“There is a veil. There is a little girl. She is seven. She is pale with blue eyes and white blonde hair. She looks like me. She looks like I looked when I was seven. Is this me?”

“What is she doing?”

“She is reaching through the veil to me. I am holding her hand. I want to hold her and not let her go, but the veil separates us. She is me… and yet, she is herself too.” Tears fell. I felt a deep connection and recognition. I felt deeply protective of her. I knew somehow, she was me.

I reached the limits of the psychologist’s bravado. There was no more hypnosis for me and for many years, I was left to wonder. Did I really meet myself in a past life? Was it just wishful thinking and vivid imagination? Or was I just as odd and beyond the pale as everyone seemed to believe? I did not meet myself again until 2014.

PS Click here for a helpful website about trauma.

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Knitting needles saved my life

I scurried back and forth beneath the machine as it clicked and clacked with metallic precision. The noise was deafening but I paid it no mind, intent on picking up the stray fibres that fell to the floor. I hated these inhuman machines that allowed for no rest and no joy.

“When I have children,” I promised myself, “I will make them things with my own two hands and I will put love and joy into every stitch. They will not wear inhuman things made by these machines.”

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Image: Child labourer, Newberry, South Carolina by Lewis Hines 1908

It was a fierce and passionate promise that rang through the ethers, as such promises do, to survive death and rebirth. I didn’t know that I would not live to adulthood in this life. I would not have the children I yearned for when I was but a child myself – skinny arms and pale legs in a dirty shift – just one of the many child labourers of the Industrial Revolution.

I sit here now, typing on the porch, circular knitting needles and yarn close to hand, keeping faith with the child I was. Where to begin? When I first met her, or when I first kept faith with the promise she made herself? Is this her story or my story? We are one.

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