How do you know?

How can you “remember” your past or future lives? How do you know what other realities you have, are, or will be participating in? For me, it’s always been easy to see. But with a little practice, it can be easy for anyone.

You see, we all “carry around” our own pasts, like books on tape they’re recorded within our soul. To “read” these books you just need to focus your energies (your self) on that chakra where the recordings are stored.

When I do that, I get short movie-type segments that play out in my mind—like waking dreams, but clearer. I liken it to watching a movie through a gauzy curtain, though sometimes the curtain isn’t there at all, in which case I can see the action and characters quite clearly.

Many times the conversations (if there are any) take place in the native language (in other words, if the memory is from Loir, France, then the language spoken is French). Yet, even though the characters are speaking their native language, I can understand them. It’s as if the meaning of the words is going straight to my brain, so I’m hearing the meaning of the conversation rather than the words of the conversation.

Rarely are there any literal signs to tell me when and where the memory is from. Usually, I have to try to match the mode of apparel and hair styles to a period of time, then try to match the language with a location. Sometimes the location is just “known” by me (the current me) but I still need to match the clothing and hair styles with the era. That’s why sometimes the era is noted by me as being between 1200-1300 AD, because the clothing worn is so generic (European peasantry didn’t have much in the way of style back then) that it’s difficult to match any closer.

Sometimes I’ll see something within the memory image that will be a large help (such as a crest on the side of a coach), and sometimes there is little to note, other than grass-covered hills in a springtime countryside. Without the players there I would have never identified the countryside as being in Asia (more specifically Japan), but several of the players were wearing the clothing of Shindo monks, which gave me the time period—feudal Japan.

The most common method I use for linking in and viewing some of my pasts (or possible futures) is meditation. The one I like best for this type of viewing is a focused meditation. You focus on your second and third chakras (the ones by your belly button and just below your genitals), because this is where the memories are stored.

When I first started, I would get quick flashes, like lightning flashing on a kaleidoscope of photographs. However, as I was able to hold my focus for longer periods of time, I found myself able to move from photographs to fragments of moving pictures. Even these fragments of movement, though, usually came without sound—perhaps a flash of insight (such as knowing where or when). But it wasn’t until it became full blown videos that the “sound” also began to work, and I would hear the conversations and arguments of these memories.

If you’re not into meditation, and I know a lot of people aren’t, you can focus on your pasts or futures just before falling asleep. This allows you to use your dreams as the window through which you can view your pasts and futures. Just before falling asleep, repeat to yourself that you want to the past or future that is having the most influence on your current life. This will trigger you (most times, anyway) to “remember”. Of course, you need to wake yourself up immediately following the memory replay so that you can write it down, just as you would with any other dream. But I think you’ll see the difference between the “memory” and normal dreams.

While dreams rarely make sense, and are usually non-linear in their “stories”, a memory will make sense and it will tell a logical, linear story. Most of us retain the memories of very emotional or traumatic events (which most of the time is the death sequence of the previous life). Many times this can be when the previous person we were died, but other times it can be some other event—a betrayal by lover, friend, co-worker, can be very emotional, so may appear; the los of a loved one, whether child, friend, spouse, etc. can be very emotional and may appear as a memory; or the loss of a major opportunity (especially if it will cause a major change in our lives or major regrets) can be “dreamed” about.

Think about your own life, and the types of memories you have—aren’t they all extremely emotional? Someone you loved, admired, or held in great esteem did something nice for you; a day when something happened that greatly embarrassed you; the horrible argument you had with a friend over 10 years ago; the time you got cheated out of your last dollar by someone. See, those are the types of things that stay in your memory—the emotional things. So, when you delve into your pasts or futures, those are also the types of memories you will find—the emotional ones.

Another way to open yourself up to remembering your pasts, is to look to your current life. Do you have a penchant for African art when all your other tastes are extremely modern? There’s probably a life connection with Africa. Do you find yourself decorating your house with hints of Ancient Egypt—a statue of Isis, an ankh, maybe just some wallpaper border with hieroglyphs on it? Perhaps you spent a life in and around that area during that time period. Perhaps you find that learning a particular language comes easily, while any other language is very difficult? Did you find it easy to learn Russian, but couldn’t figure out French or Spanish to save your soul? Maybe it’s because you’re connecting with a life spent in Russia or the Ukraine.

So if you’re really interested in finding out about your other lives, there are many ways to do it. There are hypno-therapists who will help you regress and remember, there are auric readers who can probably help you remember, but mostly there’s yourself. You have the recordings, you just need to “listen” to them.


Karma and the Essence Twin

Imagine jumping out of a plane with no parachute; or riding on a runaway roller coaster; or swimming in the ocean in the middle of a hurricane, and you’re still not even close to what it’s like to do a karmic debt with your essence twin. (An essence twin is someone who is a mirror image of yourself at the soul level. Physically and personality-wise, you can be as different as night and day, but at the energy level, the soul level, you’re yin and yang.)

As I got drawn into my essence twin’s life, the objectivity with which I usually approached most of my life, faded away. I became inextricably drawn into his dramas until the web of his life encased me like a cocoon.

Like a swimmer caught in an undertow, I lost all sense of direction—I couldn’t tell if I were swimming up or down, right or left. The few times I managed to get to the surface, I was almost immediately sucked right back into the maelstrom.

The task itself was rather simplistic—stop him from committing suicide—something I had failed to do in two previous encounters. Oh, how simple it seemed; yet oh how complicated it became.

As my essence twin and I grew closer, his love for drama began to overtake me, until I became completely lost. First there was the growing neediness for attention, then the demands that I prove myself to him—prove my loyalty, my friendship, my “devotion”. These continued to increase until eventually I could no longer meet his demands and his expectations—no one would be able to.

Throughout this entire ordeal, my husband stood firm and tireless, always ready with a shoulder for me to cry on, or advice on how to cope with my wayward and frustrating twin. Never did he chide me for getting involved in this whole crazy dance, because he knew the importance of this encounter, and he understood that we all just had to see it through—to whatever the conclusion turned out to be.

The drama intensified, pushed by the same person who had egged my essence twin on in both previous lives. This time he was again manipulating the circumstances toward disaster, while I struggled to maintain a semblance of balance.

As my essence twin’s “best buddy”, this young man delighted in twisting the cords of friendship and watching my essence twin spin out of control. He was an expert in the subtle art of misdirection, and excelled in planting the seeds of doubt, mistrust and fear.

I knew that nothing I said would convince my essence twin of this man’s duplicity and scheming. The best I could do was try to disrupt this man’s efforts. For a while this worked, but then my twin and his buddy went away for a “guy’s weekend” and I found myself the object of my twin’s suspicions.

Having lost that edge, I began to work with my essence twin’s girlfriend. She had also expressed her distrust and dislike of his “friend”, so it became a strong alliance. My essence twin’s buddy, sensing the danger, decided to break up the romance. By using his smooth tongue and lying ways, he convinced my essence twin that his girlfriend was untrue.

I thought my essence twin would see right through this, but I underestimated his “buddy”. Manipulating people was his specialty, and his glib tongue proved more damaging than I thought.

All of this was brought home to me when, in the middle of the night, my internal alarms went off. Unable to sleep, I got up and followed my instincts to the computer and my email. There in my In Box was a suicide note from my essence twin. Thoroughly lost in the drama of the play now, I freaked. Hysterical, I woke up my husband. When I finally managed to explain to him what was happening he helped me to calm down, then decide what to do.

The decision was to call the police. After reading them the note, they rushed to my essence twin’s apartment, but he wasn’t there. Having kept me on the phone, they then asked if I knew where he worked. I did, so I told them. They hurried over there and finding my essence twin there, they hustled him into the squad car.

Embarrassed—oh, yes. Furious—you bet. He said he would hate me forever for doing what I did, and I thought my heart was breaking with every epithet he spewed at me while I filled out the police report which would commit him to the psyche ward of the local hospital for at least 5 days.

Several days after my essence twin was released from the hospital where he had been held for observation, I made myself go to his apartment and face him.

I knocked on the door not sure what to expect—no response, a slammed door in my face, more screaming? When he first answered, I thought he would simply close the door and leave me standing there in the hallway. His face was a mixture of storm clouds and resignation. Finally, the anger slid away, leaving just the resignation.

I told him I was sorry, but I had been so worried after reading that note, that I had to do something. He stared at the floor and the silence stretched like taffy. Finally, when he spoke it was in a hushed and quiet voice. He admitted that he had come close that night to killing himself—closer than he really meant to. Close enough that he had frightened himself, too. He raised his eyes to meet mine, and again the silence lingered between us. Then he simply said, Thank you.

Suddenly a small tug pulled at my soul and at the same time I heard a small, clear chime-like sound resound within me, and I knew—it was done. We had found balance between us. I had succeeded in stopping him, and he had acknowledged what I had done. Now we could both move on with our lives.

We talked a few more times after that, and he recognized what a negative influence his “buddy” had always been. So to make a fresh start, he headed out to California where he started his own dot com, got married, and is doing quite well for himself.

That whole episode took nearly 3 years. Three years of the most intense emotional rollercoaster that I have ever been on. It was 3 years of overwhelming, emotional turmoil that sucked me in, tumbled me around and spit me back out. I was drained and glad; bewildered and sad (at his leaving); lost and in need of a nice calm life.

I had repaid one other karmic debt earlier in my life, and I had experienced none of the emotional turmoil that I had just gone through with my essence twin. Then I remembered what Michael had said regarding the difficulty of completing monads and karma with an essence twin: “Karma is very compelling, and karma between essence twins even more so…” and I thought to myself, “What an understatement.”

It is the most intensely emotional experience you can imagine. You lose all sense of self. Nothing is as important as the “play”. The drama becomes all-consuming. There is no world outside or beyond you and your essence twin and those “bit players” who are part of your drama. Rational thought and objectivity become impossible and when it’s all over, you wonder who that crazy person was. Because you would never act that way or say those thing—and yet you did.

It’s as if you became someone else for a while, but now you’re back. Shell-shocked and little worse for wear, but you are back.

So, if you feel your threads are leading you to a karmic reunion with your essence twin, put on a parachute, fasten your seatbelt, and grab a life vest, ‘cause you’re in for a hell of a ride.

Memories and Fairy Tales…

When I was 2, I wrote my name, or a form of my name, for the first time. Proud of myself, I carried the paper into the living room to show my parents. Because I had never printed anything before, let alone written something with connected letters, they believed that one of my older brothers must have done it. Determined to show them, I placed the paper on the floor. I then positioned myself on the floor by the paper, and with pencil in hand, I scrunched my eyes, stuck my tongue between my teeth and proceeded to write my name. Not print, but actually write my name.

This little gambit earned me the right to start accompanying my mother to the local library. At first, my mother and the librarian selected the most juvenile of books for me (you know the type—all about Dick, Jane and a dog named Spot). By the age of 3, I had grown beyond these basic word books and eagerly began seeking out every fairy tale book that I could find. I read Mother Goose, the Brothers Grimm, Golden Books, Tales from Sweden, and a compilation of English and Irish fairy tales. However, none of them was exactly “right”. I wasn’t articulate enough to be able to explain why they were unsatisfactory; I just knew that somehow, in some way, they weren’t the fairy tales I was looking for.

I became “obsessed” with finding the correct version of fairy tales. All of these that I had read so far were close, but somehow they had always lacked that familiarity, that feeling of completeness or rightness. The settings were always close, but not quite right, just as the characters were there but the names were wrong. Many times, it was simply that the cadence of the words in the story were wrong, and I would become frustrated and angry because I lacked the capacity to explain to anyone just why I was so frustrated.

The day before my 4th birthday, my mother and aunt took me to the BIG city. We were going to eat lunch in a fancy restaurant (my aunt worked there, which was why we could afford to go there), and then we were going to see a stage version of Cinderella. As we walked from the train station toward the restaurant, we passed a huge bookstore. I had never seen so many books—not even in our local library. You see, we lived in a small town and, consequently, our library was small, therefore the space allotted to the children’s section was tiny. But this building was several stories tall and at least a block square, and each window was just overflowing with books.

After fussing and whining about it being my birthday, my mother and aunt finally gave in and we went inside. It took several moments for my eyes to adjust to the low light inside, but when they did, I continued to stand in the middle of the doorway, too stunned to move. The store was even larger than I thought, and there were books everywhere. Just ahead of us was a row of very large tables on which were stacked piles of books. Beyond that were rows and rows of floor to ceiling bookcases whose shelves were loaded with colorful books.

I was overwhelmed. My mother tugged at my hand and we stepped into this wonderland of books. We wandered through the maze of shelves until we found a place where the bookcases were shorter and the furniture not so majestic. Here I gazed at the myriad of titles spread before me until my eyes found one very thick volume. Something about that book called to me—my mother always insisted it was simply the colorful cover, but I think it was more than that.

When my eyes found that book, they never left it. I walked as if in a trance, heading straight for the bookcase with that thick tome. Standing on tip-toe, I reached up to the top shelf where the book stood and, using both hands, I pulled that book to me. Carefully I placed that book on one of the small tables and, hands trembling and breath held, I opened it to the first story. I scanned that story, then the next, and the next. Then eyes bright, I clutched the book to my chest and refused to give it up. This was the book I had been looking for. Each story was just as I “remembered” it—where the princes had names like Ivan and Igor, and the princesses were named Nadia and Natasha; the castles all had onion-shaped domes on their towers, and the winter scenes were described as mystical and magical with ice-draped trees and beautiful flowing fields of white.

What I had been missing with all those other books of fairy tales was the familiarity, and I had finally found it. These were the fairy tales of my past—a past spent in the Ukraine. What I had finally found in this huge book store wasn’t just a compilation of every Russian fable and fairy tale, but more, it was a link to a past life memory.

As a child of 3 and 4, I didn’t fully understand the need, the compulsion to find the “right” fairy tales. However, as I grew older and looked at or leafed through my Russian book of fables, I came to understand that I had been looking for something based on a past life memory; a memory that surfaces and seeks validation. However, unlike most children who are not allowed to believe in past lives or other non-Western beliefs, I was able to validate my memories by finding that book and getting my aunt to buy it for me. Most Western children learn to repress these memories because they are told that what they think is a memory is nothing more than an over-active imagination. It’s too bad that so many in our society are so frightened by what they don’t understand, or don’t want to understand.

I know (at least intellectually, if not emotionally) that it’s part of the cycle of life, that people need to forget about their pasts or they can’t live the life they’re in currently (or at least not as fully as they chose to). However, I still empathize with those children who are only seeking to validate something that they feel or sense about themselves, because it’s hard enough to be a child. But being a child unable to validate something inside of yourself, is doubly tough.