SEEING MYSELVES
12/13/07
I was paralyzed with focus and fear, as I saw a wave crash over the wooden deck of a ship. I saw a man in a cocked hat and revolutionary war uniform run down several deck stairs to escape the crashing wave . I saw him drown in the sea as the wave washed him overboard off the large wooden ship. It’s sails were ripped by the wind. The drowning man was me. This was only one of many of my past lives I experienced in my experiment with past life regression. The following paragraphs are descriptions of 10 of my past lives as they were revealed to me in a past life regression experiment. They were dictated by me at the time of the regression, and are reprinted here without revision or embellishments.
I then saw a man from India, in an orange printed shirt and hat and paints made of silk . He played a drum and tamborine in a market area, he had two beautiful women dancing to his drum beat. He was a magician, his wife and daughter picked the pockets and purses of those who gathered to watch them dance. I was the drummer, I was the magician, I was the street performer. This was in the year 1900, I am certain I was there. My name was Ingani.
I was Reginald Matherson, American merchant, biligerant old man. Bearded, wealthy, healthy, I saw him in a partial shadow standing near a large fireplace looking out a window . He was alone, in his late 60’s early 70’s. He wore a dark brown suit with a half jacket , stylish for the time, 1830. I could not tell what region of the country or the town or city I was in. I was Reginald Matherson.
I saw a child, a boy, an orphan. My name was Tom. I lived on the streets in a city I was seven years old . A middleage woman took me in and tried to care for me. She was very poor, I was very hungry, very sick, I died at eight years old. I remember little else except the woman crying over me.
My name was Jacob Smith, I lived in the late 1800s . I saw myself smoking a briar pipe, standing in front of a large brick house, near it’s entry way. I wore wired rimmed glasses , dressed in a light brown suit, fashionable for the times, dark brown , polished boots. I was next to a large wagon , supervising it’s unloading. I had a wife and two children. They were watching the wagon being unloaded . It was a delivery of furniture . Rich , dark, mahogany dresser and table. My wife was very pleased. We were all very happy. I was in my late thirties. I was Jacob Smith a lawyer and scholar.
I was a beggar in 1300 AD. I saw myself cold, in ragged clothes, a beggar’s bowl in front of me. I could see around me but only vaguely. I had been a Templar, tortured by the church, my lands taken from me, my name could not be mentioned. My arms and legs were torn by the rack. My back whipped , and skin torn by the barbs of metal. I would not denounce the truth, I would not . I cursed the church and pope, and all who tortured me and my brethren. I was stronger than they, I knew I would survive, I would never renounce the truth. They left me ruined , maimed and without hope. I wished to die, but they knew that , and let me live as a beggar. My fingers were broken, my eyes synged by red hot coals. Complete blindness was too compassionate for the torturer priests. If I lived I would live as a deadman. I later died by my own hand, for I did not fear death. I would come back to life again and again. My spirit was unconquerable . My name was stricken from all mortal memory and cursed as vile as the name of Satan. But I was not guilty of evil, It was the truth they feared and cursed.
I was R.M. a flamboyant playwright and poet. I died at 25 , near the year of 1600. I was addicted to alcohol, hard living, a libertine killed by an assailant. I dodged his knife, but another attacked me from behind. I felt the blade in my back and reached for my dagger. I cut the attackers throat, and cut the other’s arm, the attacker stabbed my back through to my vital organs. I began to cough blood and the pain of the wound brought me to my knees. One attacker died before I did. The other ran to finish me as I fell to the ground in crushing pain. I lashed out at him and cut his leg above the knee, but his sword ran though my chest, and pierced my heart. I died instantly. They were robbers, I was drunk, they followed me from the tavern, I saw them in the shadows, but too late. One died with me, and the other was maimed. No one will remember them, I pray my friends have remembered me. Vengeance was half served, half mine. Perhaps my dying curse of the living murderer, will stay with him through out eternity.
I was a Roman soldier. I wear sandles and a Roman tunic, I am holding a spear and standing on the bridge of a walled fortress, looking down at one thousand enemy soldiers. I can see them clearly , as they advanced towards me, I can hear their cries and whistles and their banging their shields. I see them , yet I feel calm, I turn to a soldier next to me, and tell him to prepare all defenses for the attack. I lived though this battle, the enemy retreated, and I returned to Rome. In Rome I am with my wife and children. I am wealthy and an officer in the army. I do not see my death, only my life, the sun, green hills, blue sea, pillars, and buildings , markets and people and friends like myself . I see my wife adorned in gold jewelry and rubies. Her beauty astounds me, as she walks towards me on a grand marble floor, in a temple of a goddess, where she was praying for me. She was as beautiful as a goddess, we kissed and embraced , and our souls merged into bliss.
I am a fisherman, I row my small boat along the shore line of a Carribean island. I am casting my net, and I see huts and naked children playing on the beach. I see my wife in a yellow and orange wrap dress, on the beach with the children as she collects shells and seaweed. I am a man in his thirties, dark skinned, barefoot, naked to the waist. I am casting my nets and pulling in fish. I have caught many this day. I am happy. The sun is bright, and the ocean is calm. The sky is blue. I hear my wife calling from the shore, telling me she is bringing the children home, waving to me as I wave my acknowlegement to her. I do not know my name . She called to me as Bawla. but I am not certain if that was my name. I can not read or write. Few in my village can. Only the elders know this art. I am a fisherman. I do not know what year it is, time here seemed suspended.
1790, I was born with a club foot . My name is Jonathan Able. I am a tradesman. I am a printer. I own a press and run a newspaper. I am a publisher and write for the paper. The paper is called Able’s Press. The paper was very popular, controversial and had many readers. I am tall , slender and disheveled.. I never married, I worked day and night, and produced a weekly paper. I have one reporter and one apprentice working for me. I live in the same building as my newspaper office. I see myself here as forty years old. I am successful , but not content. I am serious and sullen.
I am an Italian banker and financier during the Italian Renaisance. I am a sixty year old man. I am sitting behind a desk, negotiating a loan to a merchant. He is smiling at me as I approve his loan. He is to build a a large home in the city. I have authorized his loan. I am sitting behind a large dark wood desk, with ornate carving on its legs and sides. Upon the wall is a tapestry of a pastural scene and a castle . Two knights are riding towards the castle. The tapestry has a gold thread fringe around it , and is finely woven. The chair the builder is sitting in is direcly across from me. It is high backed and straight. He is bent forward as he signs the paper work. The sun shines through the window , it is late summer or early autumn.
These are only a few of my past lives that I have recognized through a past life regression. These people were me, and I was them. I do not know all of their life’s details , only the few I have seen and have dictated here. I know I have lived many lives. We all have. It is the way of humanity. It is the way to the full ascension of consciousness. Once we see who we were, we understand who we are. We are eternal and forever striving to achieve oneness with our creator, through the voluntary, karmic, reincarnations of our spirit.
I am sitting at my desk writing, at this computer. I am wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a grey longsleeved teashirt. It is snowing an inch an hour, and I am watching the snow accumulate from my study window. I am alive and well. I have recently recalled memories from 10 of my past lives. This is my current life. What number it is I can not tell. These are the only lives I could recall. I didn’t want to continue further. I was exhausted after witnessing several of my own deaths. I didn’t want to continue. I have witnessed enough for the time being. Perhaps I will delve more deeply into myself at another time. For now this is all I care to recall.
L.A. STEEL
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