I always liked Pascal’s wager on the question about the existence of God. He wrote, “If I get to heaven and there is a god I will be pleased. If there is none then I was right all along.” All my life I have scrutinized my “soul” experiences with amazement and skepticism. To this day I am unsure what they all mean. I can only relate them as I experienced them.
The summer of 1940 was steaming hot in Köslin, Pomerania in spite of a cooling breeze blowing in off the Baltic Sea. Three women, my mother and both grandmothers, were pushing my red pram through the blooming city park, catching sprays from the fountain in the center. The women were clad in traditional black mourning attire. My father had been killed in the war only weeks before I was born in the midst of a fragrant flower season.
An old woman, partially hidden under a colorful cloak, bent forward from the waist, approached my pram and pushed her hood back revealing a deeply wrinkled face with veiled gray eyes. Multiple shells, sparkling blue, purple, green and yellow, dangled around her neck and along her arms. She clapped two large turquoise-colored shells together above my head and cackled, “This child is special. She will lead an extraordinary life.” Then she vanished in a gust of wind. My grandmother Maria exhaled. “I recognize her. She is the Gypsy from the forest camp I visited as a child when I sneaked away from our castle at Sankt Ivan, near Prague.” It would be years and a war later before a similar vision would swoop into my life. And fifty years before I met Eva, an astrologist, whose features resembled those of the Köslin gypsy and who wore shell adornments like the ones my grandmother Maria had glimpsed on her childhood gypsy.
I encountered my grandmother Maria’s healing powers many times during my growing up years. She was a devout Christian Scientist who practiced her beliefs. She carried me through many feverish nights as a baby and a toddler. Her faith was severely tested when she could not protect her two young sons whom she had wrapped in positive energy before they were sent to fight as conscripted soldiers. Both were killed at the Russian front. But despite the personal tragedy, my grandmother remained convinced that every experience, good or bad, carries a meaning. She wrote to me, “Often, only after an event has long passed do we realize its importance. Each encounter teaches a lesson.” I was frustrated with that remark and retorted, “Does life have to be a series of lessons?”
My grandmother was my childhood guardian. She was a storyteller whose protagonist was often a wise owl who carried disguised messages for me. The symbol of the owl stayed with me throughout life. I was married and living in Scotland when my grandmother died. An owl settled on a tree branch outside from my open window at the exact minute she took her last breath. Owls are rare in Glasgow. This vision did not stay long before taking flight on snow-white wings spread like sheltering kites.
The seeds of the powers of the unconscious were laid early and secretly. The influence of my Omi Maria was subtle. I can’t recall any extraordinary experiences during and after the war, except that we miraculously survived turbulent years of devastation, hunger and homelessness. I should have viewed it as a sign when my first boyfriend named me “Seelchen” (Little Soul) because he was amazed how quickly I could gain insights into a person’s life. My ability to observe and listen served me well. When I later entered more deeply into unconscious realms the harvest was abundant.
In my fifties I began hypnosis training in two different Texas locations. The first took place in a large house on the outskirts of Houston. My teachers, a couple, Elizabeth and Eric, lived upstairs. Downstairs was a large classroom and several small meditation rooms, decorated in simple traditional nature designs. The property surrounding the center stretched wide and belonged to a farmer who let us students roam freely. We would let the sun warm our shoulders, sit under a live oak tree, stretch out on the grass, straddle a low stone wall or amble alongside an ivy covered wooden fence.
At another building, adjacent to the main center, I was introduced to related rituals like palm readings, channeling and astrology. Two teachers, Petra and Eva, were the instructors. Groups were small, and snacks of fruit and freshly baked cookies were always provided. The meeting rooms were crammed with spiritual artifacts, glazed singing bowls, colorful tapestry, wall-hangings, bells, beads and drums. Incense wafted through the air. We sat on floor cushions. Chimes rang when we entered and when we left. We were not allowed to bring alcohol or use drugs. I loved the funky atmosphere. During session breaks Petra often braided my hair into several tiny tails and wound them like a wreath around my head.
It did not take long for me to unearth hidden traumas from my life, mull them over and let them go. On weekends I signed up as a hospice volunteer. I concentrated on the here-and-now and on bodies in need of care. I was in awe of the body, its beauty and resilience, and felt compassion when the body grew frail, splintered and finally broke. I considered all stages of aging as part of life, ignoring any realm beyond our known reality. I bowed with love to life on earth and was grateful that the body provided a habitat while we lived. I sang an ode to earthly life. I never wondered what lay beyond death’s door. I wanted to be a guide on the path and perhaps help someone over the threshold but once the door clanked shut, the beyond was a land of mystery and uncertainty. When someone asked me to pray with them I gladly obliged, but to questions about the afterlife I could only reply, “We will need to wait and see.”
Preparing a body for burial, washing and dressing it with respect and gratitude, giving it an honored farewell, seemed important. Even the ailing and dying body is part of earth’s abundance. No need to rush the leavetaking. I urged loving tasks. I washed my mother’s hair two days before she died. I also massaged her bluish feet right to the end. I always envisioned cradling a body in its final moments. The ritual of caring for a dead body provides grievers with a task and closure.
I was not prepared for an encounter with the spirit world. Petra had gathered five of her students in her cozy living room for a seance. A large candle burned in the middle of the table which was covered with a white lace cloth. We were strangers and Petra wanted us only to introduce the person we intended to find during the trance. I had come to connect with my father. To the repetitive sounds of drums and rattles we sank into a guided meditation. My mind and heart were open with hope. Suddenly I found myself in a concert hall with an ebony upright piano in its center. A tall woman with flowing dark hair and a rustling golden gown entered and approached the piano. Her facial features were impressive–a high forehead and full red lips. Before she started to play she smiled at me. She smiled at me for what seemed an eternity. When Petra brought us out of the seance, back into the present I was a bit disappointed not having found my father. When I shared my vision, a young man burst forth, “That’s my wife. Where is she? How did you connect with her?” He broke into sobs.
“She is the person I was looking for. Please take me to her.” Petra tried to calm the young man who had jumped up and thrown his arms around me. She pulled him onto a chair next to her. She explained to our group that I had channeled the young man’s dead wife. “Without my willingness,” I immediately made clear. I was shaken to the core. My chest heaved with apprehension. What had happened? That was not what I had come for. If someone had told me that story prior to the session I would not have believed it. I stayed that night with Petra and she assured me that she would help the young man. But he had his hopes on me. He did not know my address but knew my name and somehow found our phone number. He called and called until we had to change our number. Petra continued her grief counseling with the young man and he finally released his grip on me. I wanted never to attend a seance again. Petra’s explanation that spiritual energies can overwhelm others did not soothe my worries that something like that could happen again.
Eventually I realized why I had gone through channeling the loss in a stranger’s life. In the past I had run away from experiences which overwhelmed me. On numerous occasions I had ignored my mother’s troubled stories because I believed that I could not handle her sorrows. I often blocked out sad events and would not finish a book ending in tragedy. Now I learned that I needed to set boundaries but without ceasing to care. When a few years later I participated in a silent Vipassana retreat in Kaufman, Texas, I channeled a young woman’s grief over having lost her mother. Sharing what we had experienced during the seance, I engaged her in a conversation about her loss. I was able to put my arms around her and let her cry.
One day Eva entered our common room with a stack of thick folders. She had finished analyzing our astrological charts. She beckoned each of us into a secluded alcove where she explained the results. A few weeks before we had handed her the information she requested–place, date, and the hour of our birth.
She beamed when she sat in front of me. She had never met my husband and was unaware of his profession as the director of a major institute. She had asked me beforehand if, as a bonus, she could draw his chart. I had agreed and given her his dates. Bold large black letters on the manilla folder read: LEADER. And that is what my husband has been all his life, a leader to the core. I was amazed.
‘“I had to spend some time on your chart,” she told me, “because you were born in another country, in a different time zone. I found some fascinating information but some of the events might still lie in your future, to be revealed later. Are you ready?” She looked at me woefully, examining my face to determine whether I would be able to absorb the news. I thought back to my grandmother Maria’s encounters with the gypsy. Even Eva had veiled gray eyes, and her colorful ornaments jingled. Then she explained, “You are a very old soul and this may be your last incarnation. In other lives you were forbidden to write, you were denied children and once you were sent to a violent death.” Eva again looked directly at me to see how I took the information and continued, “Your chart tells me that the present life is what you longed for.” I was shocked but she was right. I led the life I desired, had a loving partner, children and grandchildren. I even became a writer and published poet. What a curious adventure. I needed to know more. Eva made a suggestion. “Since Elizabeth and Eric are just next door, let’s ask them for help. They might journey you back to what you experienced a lifetime ago.”
It was not long before I was given the desired insights. We were again a small group that bright sunny morning when Elizabeth and Eric announced, “This is observation day.” They both carried clipboards. “Find any place inside the house, or outside and meditate. We will go from person to person and observe you. This afternoon we will reveal the results.” I looked around. The outdoors beckoned. I took a sandy footpath to a budding rosebush and settled comfortably underneath, letting myself sink deeper and deeper into my meditation. Later Elizabeth and Eric explained that they had found me in a kneeling position, my forehead in obeisance to the earth. In my trance I found myself in a damp monastery cell, enclosed by steep stone walls with a tiny window high above. I was a novice praying on a cold bare floor when a young man slipped through the window, sliding down to me. Next, we were in a loving embrace. Then he slipped back out through the window and soon I heard gunshots from one of the guards who had caught the intruder. I remained alone in my dark cell and in a daze I saw myself washing my bloody undergarments. Over the next weeks I began to write longing, passionate poems. The poems were discovered and I was brought before a council at the cloister, tried and condemned to death. Lastly, I experienced myself standing on a wood pyre in Prague’s main plaza as sheets of my poems fluttered into the leaping flames. I woke up with Elizabeth wiping my face with a soft cloth. “You fainted, dear, but now you are alright.” I did not feel alright and called my husband to pick me up.
I hated what I had learned about my past life. How cruel, how unjust. But during the journey I felt like myself. I knew I had been that novice. It felt as real as a dream can feel real. But how did I ever transcend into another existence, another woman?
Eric had witnessed my shock and distress. He offered another journey back. I took him up on his suggestion, if only to escape the memory of this horrible event.
I was stretched out on a plush dark blue couch, pink roses winking at me from the fabric. Eric had closed the heavy drapery halfway so that only a slight sunbeam peeked through. I was soon in a deep trance. I found myself in a thick forest and familiar with the timber-beamed house which nestled in its clearing. A middle-aged man in green forest attire tenderly placed a hand on a woman’s arm. She was dressed in a pine-green suit. Her brown hair streaked with white strands was bushy like a squirrel’s tail and tied together behind with a red silk ribbon. The couple focused their attention on the back of a large framed portrait of themselves. “You write first,” he encouraged her. “But you are better at rhyming,” she teased back. With a silver quill she slowly wrote her name in loopy cursive and then he took the pen from her and wrote, “This is our testimony: For generations to come everyone should know that we are still in love at our ripe old age.” He signed his name with quick upright strokes. I knew the story from hearsay. That framed portrait belonged to my father’s great-grandparents. It had been placed in the attic where worms had gnawed tunnels into the wooden frame. The date was smudged and spiderwebs had woven protective threads like trails across the names, hiding them. But the inscription was still legible. Had I been that forester’s wife? When I slid back out of darkness, the sun broke through the curtain slit with renewed vitality. I was beaming and so was Eric.
Now that I had a more balanced view of my past lives I was no longer afraid to gather impressions of déjà vu places and encounters.
I had heard many of our family stories which became colored with visual images. I remember climbing with a grandson through the rubble of our ancestral castle in Silesia and inhaling ghost-like vapors rising from the crumbling chimney and the caved-in cellar. We thought that we could discern glowing eyes in the smoky mist. I remember one of our daughters standing at the entrance of the gloomy crypt at Sankt Ivan and sensing spirits escaping from the ancient steel caskets covered with embroidered tapestry. She swooned. I felt the earth move under my feet when my mother and I returned to her birthplace in Namibia and I knew I had been there before. I foresaw with shimmering eyes the births of our children and grandchildren and was proud when I was right in my predictions about their sexes and birthdates. But I was also wrong at times and I never knew how my wishful thinking had gone awry? I once predicted that our cat would return after being lost but it never did.
I still don’t know how to interpret many visions, the encounters from a different realm. Were the impressions from the past engraved in the recesses of my brain and carried through the cycle of generations, only to erupt at this juncture? What sprang from my lively fantasy, and what was a true past immersion? Was I really running next to my father along the sandy Baltic Coast or did I imitate stories I had overheard as a child? Did I sink next to my uncle Heio into the snow drifts near Stalingrad or did a compassionate imagination lead me there? Once I slouched in deep concentration in a womb-like kiva near Santa Fe when a spirit guide whispered, then shouted, “Use your gifts of prophecy.” As silence descended, I sighed in response. “I try but I am timid, not always sure.” I still trust and mistrust my intuitions. A blast of doubts is interrupted with whispers of certainty. I liken my encounters in the spirit world to sun rays which break through at times, while at others remain veiled, blinded by clouds.
