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A Past Life Regression Story

A Past Life Regression Story

Haunted by A Past Life?

A past life or many different past lives can “bleed through” and hamper our present day existence, usually because of old karma attached to the experiences. Recovering the memories of those lives can release us from the past, and free us to move forward more easily.

Here is one young man’s story..

Three years ago while living in Vancouver I noticed a strange ad in a New Age newspaper. The ad read: “Discover your past lives. Discover who you are and where you have been. Phone Diane, hypnotherapist, at the number listed below.” What did a hypnotherapist do? I had never heard of such a profession.

A week later, after having built up my courage as well as my curiosity, I went to see Diane. I liked Diane from the moment we met. She was in her 60’s but looked many years younger. She told me that she specialized in past life regression. Here’s the story of what happened

A Visit to Pompei

“If you discover your past lives, you discover who you are and you can change yourself, forever altering your future,” said Diane.

I smiled but remained skeptical. What could I uncover? Would I be in some drug-induced trance? Would I even remember what I saw, assuming of course that I would see something? Oh well, it’s only $40. If she’s a “nut” or phony I’ll find out soon enough.

I sat in a reclining chair as she closed the blinds and darkened the room. Her soft voice combined with her chamomile tea put me at ease, almost making me sleepy. She lit a candle, wound up a piano meter—the kind that ticks back and forth at regular intervals—and focused my attention to a large strange moving object on the wall. The object consisted of black concentric lines against a white background. The lines moved inward, pulling my eyes attention to them and fixating them on the downward spiraling lines. Part of me wanted to leave, but I stayed. I couldn’t move. The object before me kept dragging me into it.

“And now take a deep breath and begin to count back from one hundred,” said Diane.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…” I slowly said out loud.

“Go back to where it all began.”

“I see nothing.”

“Concentrate harder. Look at the moving lines, hear the piano meter tick back and forth, and ask for God to reveal the secret lives that have long since faded from your conscious memory.”

Sand in my Face

I sat in a chair in the midst of the darkened room, counting backwards and staring at the concentric lines moving inwards then outwards. Then at about the count of twenty I closed my eyes. Still counting, I asked repeatedly for God to uncover my past lives.

Suddenly I jumped. Something had hit my face and continued to hit it. It was sand, coarse white sand, blown so heavily by the wind that it scrapped my face. I couldn’t see. I put my arm in front of my eyes, moving forward against the wind. My clothes flapped in the wind so violently that I expected them to be ripped to shreads. I stumbled over some uneven stones in my path. My knee bled. My eyes burned. My hair hurt as the wind blew it back, almost ripping it out from its roots. I hunched over putting one arm in front of me, trying desperately to find the way. As the sunlight faded, I looked for shelter. After several minutes I touched what seemed to be a wall. I followed the wall until I found an entrance. At the place where two walls joined I crouched down, putting my face on my knees and covering my head with my arms. Exhausted I fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke. Completely covered in sand, I couldn’t move. It took me several minutes to free myself. I walked out of the building, shielded my eyes from the sunlight, and walked down a cobblestone street. I looked at my feet, clothing, and arms: I wore brown, leather sandals, a white tunic with a leather belt, elaborately-carved gold arm bracelets, one on each arm, and a dagger in a leather sheath. The street looked deserted—not even a dog in sight. Yesterday’s wind had died down to a faint breeze. Yet, as I walked along, I choked on the fine powder-like sand in the air. I continually beat the sand off my tunic and brushed it off my arms and legs. I looked around. Where was I? Many extensively damaged white stone buildings lay everywhere. Sand covered everything: the streets, the house rooftops, the front porches—even the leaves of the trees. From where did all this sand come? Obviously the occupants of the entire town had left. But what had happened? As I walked towards what must have once been the Town Square I noticed that many buildings lay in ruin. Silence filled the air. I called out. No answer. Where was everyone?

I continued walking down the town’s main street. A heavily damaged shop with an open entrance stood to the right of me. I walked into the shop. I saw no one. A few cast iron pots and pans lay on the floor, their handles protruding from the sand which covered them. On the wall lay the remnants of a mirror. I looked into the small piece of mirror remaining. I saw myself: I had long brown hair, looked about eighteen years old, and had an olive complexion. On one side of my head my hair had turned white. When I ran my fingers through my hair the white disappeared—it had only been sand. I left the shop and continued walking. The town looked familiar. Every town in my province, however, followed a standard layout making it difficult to tell one town from another. With so much devastation to the buildings I couldn’t make out what town it had been. I could not see even one sign, anywhere .

Finally I came upon the remains of what must have been a wealthy nobleman’s home– only a nobleman could have lived in such a large house. The front porch had collapsed inwards, toppling four Corinthian style pillars. Huge slabs of blue marble carvings lay scattered on the ground in the front of the building—obviously a fresco at one time. I walked nimbly through the rubble and entered what must have been the foyer. The left wall still stood even though it was completely covered with the same fine white powder that was present throughout the town. I brushed part of the wall off. Underneath was a tile mosaic. I brushed more of the wall off until a picture of a blue dolphin emerged. Several yellow fishes also emerged. I continued to brush the powder off the wall. Slowly, lettering emerged. Finally I could make out the wording: “Welcome to all who venture into these premises. Here lies the house of a great nobleman, Germanicus Anthony, Mayor of this fair town, loyal servant of the Emperor.”

“No, it can’t be!” I cried out.

I brushed the remaining powder away, revealing the name of the town.

“Oh my God! What had happened! It must be a mistake!” I cried.

The town’s name was Pompeii—my hometown. I fell onto my knees sobbing. Everyone that I had known must be dead—all of my family and friends. But how? What had happened here to bring about such utter destruction? Had Vandals attacked the town? If so, where did all this sand come from? A month earlier I had left Pompeii. I had had a fight with my father. He had wanted me to stay and take over the family business in Pompeii. I had wanted to see more of the world. My mother had begged me to stay. So had my girlfriend, Olivia. Maybe someone survived. I had to find my parents home and Olivia’s. I ran out of the ruined building and made my way to the area of town where my parents lived. I found their house or what remained of it. The house was completely destroyed. It had fallen inwards, collapsing the roof, the pillars supporting the roof, and the walls. If they had been inside they could not have survived. I sat down on one of the front porch steps and cried. For about half an hour I cried, then I thought of Olivia. I got up and ran towards her parent’s home. It was only about a ten minute walk from my parent’s place.

Her parents lived in a large house right on the corner of the street opposite City Hall. I jumped over the rubble that lay strewn in the street and made my way to Olivia’s. As I neared her home I saw the remains of her parents house. The same type of destruction that had fell upon my parents home had hit her home as well. I collapsed in front of her house sobbing, crying out in anger, asking how the Gods could have allowed such disaster to hit such a noble town. I walked back to my parent’s home, standing in the midst of its ruins, waving my hands up towards the Heavens, crying out for help. After several minutes I sat down, leaning against a pillar. I was exhausted. Several hours later I was suddenly being shaken. I awoke.

“Marcus, get up, don’t worry I’m here to help you,” said my Uncle Petronius. I jumped up, threw my arms round him, and sobbed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A volcano destroyed the entire town. It erupted without any warning, killing everyone. No one had a chance to escape. I’m so sorry. Your poor mother and father!”

“Are they dead?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And Olivia and her family?”

“Dead as well. This has been the worst disaster I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

“What’s to become of me now? I have no one left in this entire world except for you,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I have a chariot waiting for us. I knew that you would return here. I’ve come here every day since the disaster hit, hoping to find you. The sun will soon be setting. It’s a long journey back to Rome. Come, my boy, there’s nothing here anymore for you. Let’s leave.”

I walked out of the ruins with my uncle. At the edge of the city we boarded his chariot. I looked back as the chariot left Pompeii. I knew that I would never return. A new life awaited me in Rome.

“One, two, three,” a woman yelled out.

At the count of three she snapped her fingers.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“In my living room where you have been for most of the afternoon,” said Diane.

“What happened? I must have briefly dozed off for a minute,” I said.

“You must have tapped into one of your past lives.”

“That’s impossible. I would know if something like that had happened. Let’s continue on with the session.”

“Continue on. With what?” asked Diane.

“It’s only 2:00 p.m. The session has hardly begun. I’m still waiting to be put under. Mind you, I’m skeptical.”

“It’s not 2:00 p.m.—it’s 5:30 p.m.”

“What happened?”

“You tell me! By the way, who is Olivia? You mentioned her several times throughout the afternoon.”

For a moment I felt stunned, like I had just emerged from a deep sleep. Three and a half hours of my life had disappeared and I had not even been aware of its departure. I felt scared. What had happened? Slowly my recollection of my visit to Pompeii returned. What I had experienced felt so real: the sand had scrapped my skin, I had touched the marble columns at the mayor’s home, and the warm Italian sun had shone upon me. For a moment the thought crossed my mind that either I had gone temporarily mad or Diane had slipped a narcotic into my tea. I didn’t know what to believe. Unlike a normal dream which I would forget upon wakening, this experience had become etched into my memory. Everything had been so vivid, like a grandiose episode filmed in technicolor, with myself in the lead role. The intensity of the experience captivated me–no ordinary drug or drink could induce such an experience. I had crossed into another dimension, tapped into the unknown, and lived to tell about it.

Diane analyzed my experience, telling me that my present family problems were a repeat of my previous family problems back in Pompeii. Her explanation sounded absurd, yet it rang true. She thanked me for coming to see her, then mentioned that her next appointment would be arriving soon. I left her place, dazed, yet intrigued. I never went back, but to this day I still remember every detail of my “visit” to Pompeii, as though I had been there in person. Eric Hamilton ehamilt@interlog.com

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