Into the Past

We are creatures of memory. What we remember, not what actually happened, constitute that bygone reality we call our past. Sometimes we recall specific events, or vague impressions that haunt us beyond our comprehension. Sometimes we sense familiarity with random things, as if we are responding to a residual memory, a memory of things that happened before us and yet somehow are intimately connected to us.

Hindus believe in reincarnation, a recycling of the soul that causes one to have many iterations on earth, many lives. Once we learn our lessons, we become perfected and join Nirvana. Whether this is true or not, some people remember more than others. Some are deemed "old souls."

My cousin told me of a fascinating brand of hypnosis that could unlock a subject's childhood, and go even farther into the deeper recesses of the mind. Past Life Regression. Curious, as always, I asked him to take me back into my former selves (if I had any).

The session began with the image of a library. In my mind's eye, I walked to the shelf and searched for books. I saw three books on the shelf: pale blue, gold, and black, representing three distinct past lives. I opened the blue book.

Blinking, I saw a log cabin, and heard the rush of water coming from outside. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were a few coarse watercolor paintings. I peered over a basin of water, and saw the rotund, homely face of a black woman. It was my face. Then I heard crying and I held a darling infant in my arms, a beautiful little girl who fortunately did not resemble her ugly grandmother. My daughter-in-law would soon be returning; she lived with me since my son died in an accident working on the railroads.

It was the 1920s and I lived on the edge of the Great Lakes. My paintings on the mantelpiece, no one valued them; indeed, no one paid them any heed. My entire life, all I was remotely good at was painting, yet no one gave me a chance. And I never learned to read.

I closed the blue book. Hands trembling, I opened the black book.

Right away, I knew I had made the wrong choice. It was in the 1960's. I was in the midst of war. I was a young scholar in South Vietnam, drafted into the army without my consent. I did not know what I was fighting for. I felt very tired; my hands were sweating around my rifle and I was never handy with a gun. I returned home for the funeral of my grandmother and everything was white. White like a ghost. White like bone. White like the blankness of a new slate.

I did not want to go back, but there I was, in the jungle. Imagining explosions, gunshots, blood, and I began to shiver. I kept shivering...

I closed the black book. I didn't want to know what was going to happen.

I refused to open the gold book. I had seen enough.

The session stopped..

Afterwards, I asked Paul how much of this was real? What if I imagined it all?

My cousin answered that often when the result is the very opposite of what one would expect, and provides insight into your current life, it is authentic. It is when people fancied themselves as famous historical figures that it becomes dicey.

Here's the interesting thing: I AM a frustrated writer. I have always been. No matter how educated I become, how successful my career is, how many lands I traveled to, and how many people loved me, I still had a burning desire to become recognized as a writer. At moments, nothing seemed to matter except to acheive status as a writer.

Almost as if it had been a part of me before my experiences of this life. Like the frustrated black painter.

Another coincidence: I have always been very comfortable with African-Americans, perhaps even more comfortable than with Asians (even though I am Asian and grew up in a primarily Caucasian neighborhood.) I tend to gravitate towards their openness and affectionate way of relating to each other.

Was it because they were once my people?

I am still noodling over this one.