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Past LivesBy Ruth F. Graham |
Dreaming of Lives PastMoonlight cast a faint pallor over the interior of the rustic log cabin. A handmade quilt and animal skins covered us as we lay upon the simple log bed. All that I possessed in the world existed in this one room. A few pots and pans hung above the fireplace, still glowing with embers from the evening's fire; the hand-hewn wood table and chairs wiped clean from dinner; the weathered trunk stenciled with a simple flower design; a bit of lace and a small mirror adorned the dresser-top. I felt that I was only recently wed, and new to America. It seemed as though I had emigrated from a Scandinavian country to marry someone I had never before met. My unfamiliarity with this new land magnified the terror that practically paralyzed me. I might have been deaf and mute, for I was unable to give voice to my fears. Words were somehow beyond Me.. Waves of fear swept over me, for what waited outside our cabin in the American wilderness had no good intentions for either of us. Beside me in the bed lay my husband, alert and tense, his hand on the rifle that lay between us. He was not a large man, and I had a sense of much dark hair -- long hair, beard, and mustache. Neither did he speak, yet I felt strongly that he was determined to protect our home and me. We were settlers in the American wilderness, somewhere west of the Mississippi River; perhaps the plains of Kansas or Nebraska. We were unwelcome interlopers on a land that had supported Native Americans for generations. I drifted into an uneasy sleep. I don't believe that I lived to wake the next morning. But I did awake in the 1990's after that dream to a bright spring morning filled with sunshine and promise. I still trembled from the recollection of that dream. I had had another dream of myself in another time, another place, about to face the end of my life. Another dream of reincarnation. Perhaps when the last moments of life are so intense, our memories hold onto them throughout eternity, even into other lifetimes. I felt this must have been one of the most violent deaths I had
endured. Why was I there, then at that time? My life ended abruptly;
extinguished as easily as the tallow candles I had learned to make. |
| I lay in bed that morning wondering at my
purpose in that life. Was it solely to help expand the American frontier?
Was it taken as retribution for encroaching on the wilderness? Life then
was a constant struggle, and I, a simple woman, intended no malice toward
anyone. I do know, that because I lived that life, as well as so many
countless others, cities have grown up out of that wilderness, and the
United States was able to expand her boundaries. Our bounty as a nation
has enabled us to give asylum to many who have fled tyranny and
persecution.
But best of all, I came back to tell about it! |
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| As I dressed that morning, and prepared to
get myself to work and my daughter off to school, these thoughts and more
filled my consciousness. I went outside to warm up my car, and all
memories of that life faded when in dismay, I saw that my windshield had
been shattered and broken glass sprayed across the driver's and front
passenger's seats. Angry and frustrated, I made frantic calls to my
employer, my insurance agent, and the police to report the vandalism. As I
awaited the arrival of the police officer, I noticed on the front seat of
my car, amidst the broken glass, a hunk of metal, machined and smooth
along one side, jagged along an end as though from a stress fracture. It
was light in weight, perhaps aluminum.
When the police officer arrived, I showed him the windshield, the shards of glass covering the front seat, and the piece of metal. We discussed it as he wrote his report. He seemed surprised at the force with which that fairly light and small piece of metal -- smaller than a walnut in its shell -- could do that sort of damage. Windshields are manufactured specifically to not shatter. Now my house is on the far outskirts of the Chicago Metropolitan area. Frequently airplanes fly several hundred to a few thousand feet above as they circle, waiting for landing space at O'Hare Airport. We looked up as a plane few directly overhead. "Could that piece of metal have fallen off of one?" I asked. "Very possibly," he replied. He completed his report, pocketed the piece of metal, and left. I proceeded to call the local auto glass company my insurance agent had recommended. I cursed my luck that day, ignoring the belief I try to maintain that everything happens for a reason. That heaven had sent me more than just a shattered windshield. So I got my daughter on the school bus, settled in for a day at home, and caught up on laundry and a few other chores that always seemed to fall behind. Someone from the auto shop came early to pick up my car. Later in the day, when the shop called to tell me my car was ready, the voice on the phone mentioned they were short-handed, and wouldn't be able to drop it off until much, much later, or possibly the next day. I found a neighbor to give me a ride. When I finished filling out paperwork in the small office, the clerk waved toward a glass door that led to a garage area. "It's in there," he said. "Just about ready. Go on in." A mechanic was just cleaning off the new windshield he'd installed. He looked up, and with surprise I realized it was the man in my dreams. Now he really didn't look like him, but when I say that I recognize someone from one of those dreams, I mean that there is something inside each of us, the soul or what ever one could call it, that is recognizable through the outer shell we call the body. No matter how we look on the outside, it is always who we are on the inside that shines through. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. It is true. There must be some identifying footprint the soul leaves on its trek across eternity. The Akashic records, those records recognized by Edgar Cayce, mentioned by seers and theosophists alike, recognize us as entities who fill different bodies in different lifetimes like we would don a pair of shoes. Akashic records are the records of all deeds words and actions. Everything that has happened or ever will is written in the 'Book of Life'. Many theorize that we return to this life over and over to work things out with the same people. That certainly is a good enough reason why the Bible says to not let the sun go down on a disagreement. It is important to not carry a grudge, but rather to forgive and keep going; because if you haven't straightened things out in this lifetime, you'll need to in the next. Many times in this life, I have encountered people I knew in those dreams of past lives. Until I am truly able to reach out to them with love, understanding, and forgiveness, I fear we will repeat the same patterns through many lives. I do believe that when we trust intuition; that feeling in your heart which is beyond logic, that knowing that is centered in the very basis of your being; we will come to understand when we have encountered someone from a past life. But back to the mechanic I had recognized from the small cabin to the auto shop. Still cleaning off the newly installed windshield, he shook his head and said, "I did the best I could. I really did the best I could." At that moment, I had a feeling he was talking about more than just the
windshield. "I know you did," I said. I shook his hand and
thanked him. |
| Ruth F. Graham is a free-lance writer who
lives in Illinois and a regular columnist for Beyond Infinity. |