My soul has been terribly repressed for centuries and I think that's why I refuse to play games this time. I don't like authority, I do things the hard way, and I will think for myself every time. When I was in 4th grade, my mom was called to a Parent-Teacher conference because I had refused to do an assignment, they said. Actually, I had done it my own way. They gave us a list of vocabulary words to look up in our spelling book glossary. I knew all of the words already, and instead of wasting time looking them up, I just worded my own definitions that were correct, but DIFFERENT.
My mom laughed in their faces and told them she was proud of me. For thinking for myself.
The first Incarnation I can remember was in the 18th century, in France. My name was Madeline, I think, and I was an adult by the time of the revolution. I was a low-level courtesan, not really a concubine, not really a courtier. I was much like Sarah Bernhardt's mother, entertaining rich suitors who enjoyed extramarital affairs. I was a "kept woman." The aristocratic beheadings didn't directly effect my neck, but they effected my livelihood, as most of my keepers were murdered. I went into hiding, fearing that if they ran out of necks they might come for mine. Soon, I was arrested, but then I was rescued by one of my suitors who still had connections and we left the country until the revolution was over. I remember that I didn't love him, but I married him. He was always kind to me and we were good friends, but there was never passion. We had a few children and I died of old age. He had bright blue eyes. In my regression and my dreams, I always see his eyes so bright.
Next, I was a blacksmith in the 19th century, named Jacob I think, probably in Tennessee. I had a beard and glasses ( I looked in the mirror in one of my dreams ) and I was married with about 3 children. Again, I did not love my wife, and I was a rather bored person. The highlight of my life was attending a Lincoln campaign whistlestop speech at the train station. I remembered hearing chanting "Lincoln! Lincoln! Lincoln!" and riding over to see.
I wonder if I may have been homosexual, because I have had vivid remembrances of strong feelings for an apprentice, a lanky young man with jet black hair and grey eyes. Anyway, I was a blacksmith for the Confederate Army, but not a very good one. I died because I was riding my 'steed' and he threw a shoe (my faulty work) and tripped, I flew off and snapped my neck.
When I was being regressed by my aunt at age 8, this was as far as I went before she woke me up. The word 'steed' was the convincing factor for everyone of the truth of my regression. When I came out of hypnosis and listened to the tape, I had to ask what a 'steed' was. I also gave period details, like button boots for the French woman and a leather apron for the blacksmith. I had no knowledge of this at that point in my life.
I have since had reinforcing and supplemental dreams about my former incarnations. I have also remembered a third incarnation. Rose.
Rose was born in Germany, I'm not good with dates. Rose was a teenager by the time the Holocaust was really getting going. Rose had been courting a gentile boy secretly, and they were in love. When the war spread to their town, he was forced into the army, and Rose into a concentration camp. We were relatively lucky, our camp wasn't as brutal as stories I'd heard. It was still hell. Rose's lover was assigned to her camp, and they saw each other whenever possible. Finally, one night they planned to escape, and ran into the darkness, smuggled out into the night. We were captured, and my lover made up a story about my escape and he was trying to capture me and bring me back, no harm done, come along now, you. They didn't buy it and they told him to kill me. He faltered, hesitated, they were even more suspicious. I fell to my knees, crying, and told him "Kill me! I'm a filthy Jew! I don't deserve to live!" Saying, basically, save yourself. He shot me in the heart, and before I died, I saw him raise the gun to his head.
He had red hair and honey-brown eyes. They were the last thing I saw.
Now, a skeptic may say that these are figments of my imagination, clever little ramblings for amusement. I beg to differ. Have you ever had a dream in which you did not feel like you were YOU? That's how it is. I look down and I don't see MY hands, I see Rose's. Or I touch my chin and feel Jacob's beard. Or I button boots onto Madeline's delicate, pale feet.
It is real.
Was my lucky birth into an intelligent and capable body with wonderful parents in a land of privilege Karma's apology for my last life? Who knows?
Is my independence and need for rebellion a throwback to my hatred of repression? Probably.
Think on it, and visit my sister's
LJ to hear what she has to say on the matter.