Chapter Three
The Color of my 'skin'
“We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.” Buddha
I am sure there are many reasons why I was drawn to the next life after Alexander. More reasons than I am consciously aware of or able to express. What surfaces is never what I expect. Instead, the experiences repeatedly challenge my understanding of ‘self’ and ‘other,’ and always, I am reminded that life is a continuum.
************Selective awareness**************
I arrived at my mother’s house in the summer of 1992 eager to do past life explorations with her. Up until this point my memories had come spontaneously, or in meditations. I had never tried any type of past life work or exploration with another person before. Mom had extraordinary inner vision and was, at the time, going through training in selective awareness. She wanted to obtain her certificate to help other people remember and experience past lives; it also enabled her to share her gift with others.
She greeted me at the door, so calm - so all knowing. I was about to do some really deep inner work with the very person who had raised me. My mother. She knew me well, but deep inside I was hoping not that well. The thought that I was about to reveal aspects of myself neither of us were consciously aware of, left me feeling very vulnerable. But the session would prove to be more than I ever thought possible, for it was mom’s ‘inner vision’ that gave me wonderful validation for my experiences. She was able to see where I was and who I was, at the same time that I was experiencing a past life. The sessions with my mother were my first shared experiences.
Mom and I talked for some time about the differences between hypnosis, regression, and selective awareness. Hypnosis stems from a Greek word meaning to go to sleep, or to loose consciousness. Indeed, the term alone carries with it a stigma of control and manipulation. A regression includes inductions, and simple suggestions, leading a person to find understanding in an altered state through the subconscious mind. But selective awareness is an altered state of mind that is natural and happens for everyone. The mind is alert and concentrated on a particular focus. This can be a focus in physical waking life, like jogging, or washing dishes. It can also be a deeper focus in meditation which includes the surfacing of inner thoughts, feelings and emotions regarding events in the past, even in past lives.
Intentional selective awareness states are more like inner neutral zones, from which we can shift to whatever trance level is most desirable. There are three levels of selective awareness, each having characteristics pertaining to relaxation, exploration, and receptivity to change. By using selective awareness, the intention is to reach an altered state that is most effective for a particular situation. The individual leads themselves to what their own soul needs.
To help facilitate the session, mom played a form of Tibetan music; Tibetan Bells are specific sounds that create binaural beats which helped me achieve an altered state quickly. Tibetan Bells, or Tingas, are two chimes connected by a string; each chime is tuned to its own frequency, and when the chimes are struck together a binaural beat is formed. This type of brain synchronization brings the left and the right hemispheres of the brain together, and has been used for centuries by many different cultures for various spiritual purposes.
The session began........ Tibetan Bells played softly in the background. I went into the light and almost immediately I began to cry. With the tears came an inner trembling. My whole body shook from the inside out. My ethereal body remembered. I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Mom asked me what was the matter. In between my sobs I replied, "I have a little sister.....she’s gone.” Prompting me to explore further she asked me where I was. I said, "I'm on a porch, the house is near water... I am with a little boy who’s very proper.” I noticed that I had a very heavy southern accent as I expressed to her that it was my duty to play with him, like a job.
More tears followed, more sobbing and trembling. Mom asked me what was wrong; I answered, "My momma and pappa are gone.” I continued to cry. I felt in this moment like a child. Mom told me to look down, so I did. I was shocked to see that I was a young black girl, eight years old. I was wearing an old brown dress with a dirty white apron over the skirt that hung just past my knees. My shoes were old and tattered; they had rounded toes and were laced up just past the ankle. It was the year 1848; I knew this because it was ‘48 and I was eight.
I looked around and became aware that there were two houses; a very large one with white pillars several stories high and a smaller one where I was standing. I said, " I don‘t…know…” I didn't seem to know where I belonged and neither of these houses felt like home.
Mom could see where I was, but she allowed me to find out for myself what the problem was. Telling someone about their past life is not as meaningful as experiencing it firsthand. To re-experience the emotions, the feelings and the thoughts enables healing on a very deep level. Mom knew this. She told me later that she knew the circumstances but instead asked me questions that were not correct in order for me to find the answers myself.
She asked me if they had died. I replied "no.” Then she asked me if they were away on a trip. Again I replied "no.” I sobbed uncontrollably as the feeling of being separated from them became more and more clear. This feeling of separation, of being misplaced, was overwhelming. Mom stayed quiet for a little while, then she suggested that I go deeper into my heart. I looked from house to house, when suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks! I knew that I had been sold; I was taken away from my family. To me they were gone forever. I would never see them again. The sorrow was overwhelming - mom sensed my loss so she asked me -- “who is the little one you are so fond of, your little sister?” I know now that she asked this question in order to help me experience, while in an altered state, the fact that life continues, that my feelings of separation were not a permanent situation. To my amazement what surfaced was that my little sister then, is now my ex-sister-in-law. To my children, Shannon and Daniel, she is Aunt Marcy. I have always felt close to Marcy, and after this session I knew why. There were tears of joy in remembering her, and then tears of sorrow, in knowing that I had endured so much as a small child.
The session lasted almost an hour, yet to me it seemed like only ten minutes. Each memory contained a depth of feeling and multi-layered emotions that were lucid and filled with small visual details; details that mom also could see. Afterward, we talked for hours. I shared with her what I experienced, she shared with me what her visions showed her. They matched. It was as if we were both there. It was a validation that extended beyond just personal experience. It became a shared experience and much more ‘real.’
Days later, I thought again of the Dhammapada, “All that we are is a result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts.” My thoughts, feelings and emotions had drawn me to a life time of slavery, a life time when family would once again be absent. I do not think that cause and effect are so inextricably bound as to have my reality set into a motion that is not flexible. But I was seeing a pattern and I needed to know why. Why was I creating such a pattern? The words of T. S. Eliot echoed in my mind: “We had the experience but missed the meaning.” I needed to find my meaning.
During my life as Alexander, I had repeatedly come across my anger toward the white man, I did not want to be a white man. I wanted to have darker skin. Now I was experiencing myself as a blackgirl. I had darker skin, very dark, and I wasn’t a boy, I was a girl. My feelings of helplessness even carried over, for I was once again at the white man’s mercy. I now had knowledge of two previous life times. There was a pattern emerging, but it would take me years to fully understand. I came across this small black girl again and again; in meditations, spontaneous experiences, dreams, and shared experiences.
************ In the Shadow of Indifference***************
Several months had passed since my first session with mom. My memories of the little black girl, just like my memories of Alexander, enabled me to understand more about myself and others. The more I remembered the more I became aware of friends and family members who are with me today, but who were also with me then. I never consciously started out my meditations looking for anyone in particular, but in the following meditation, I came to know the past life identity of my sister Terri. Our past life together revealed to me the shadow of indifference between people during the time of slavery, specifically right before the American Civil War. It was through a duality of images during a meditation that I became aware of our relationship. One, a past life memory of who she once was; my mother in 1845, the other a holographic image of her now.
My breath became very shallow, almost non-existent. I felt vibrations of energy coursing through my body and I immediately went into the light. I seemed to move rapidly through space. I looked down; I am a small black girl, about five years old. I am inside a small wooden structure which in appearance looked like a shack. But it is my home. The side boards reminded me of an old barn; there is one door and one window, and two sleeping palettes on the floor. Our house consisted of one room.
I am with my momma in my house. I am perplexed as to something a white child has said to me, and in response to my question I hear her say, "Don't pay dem no never mind." I turned, looking over my shoulder to see her. She was a very heavy woman wearing a long skirt covered with a dirty apron. She wore a tightly wrapped bandana around her head with her hair tucked neatly in the back. She was my ‘Momma.’
My vision expanded. I see projected over her a holographic light of who she is to me now. I can see holographically an image of my sister Terri over this large black woman who was once my mother. It was a wonderful vision filled with recognition, joy and love.
As I looked at her, a later time flooded in.....I find myself experiencing when I was taken from her. I am only eight years old. I began to struggle and cry as several men loaded me into the back of a wagon. I have been sold to a plantation many miles away. A man grabbed me by the back of my neck and pushed me onto the wagon bed. I am sobbing and trembling, calling out.... "Momma, Momma." I would never see my mother again. She cried for mercy, repeating over and over......"My baby, my baby.” As the wagon left I saw other black women consoling her as she went down on her knees and wept. The separation tore my heart in two. I cried and I cried; I cried all the way.
Time shifts..... I find myself in front of a large white plantation house. It is huge, with newly whitewashed pillars by the entrance. There are willow trees in the front yard covered with lichen. Lots and lots of roses lined the front. I am with two older black women who are teaching me the "rules" of the house. I am scared and I am sad inside. All I can do is think of my momma. I miss my momma, I miss my little sister.
My sister Terri has held a deep-seated fear of someone taking her children for years. She has always been fearful of child abduction, even obsessed with it, never letting her children Michael or Emilee out of her sight unsupervised. My own memories helped me to be more compassionate regarding my sister’s obsession and we openly discussed her feelings and emotions, although she herself has not done any work around past lives and was not aware of why she felt this way. She has, over the years, let down her guard a little. But her unconscious mind still remembers. She still holds on to the fear, from a time long ago, in 1848 when her child was taken away from her, and sold into slavery. I was that child. My memories were again displaying a pattern, a continuum of dancing energy, this time between my sister and I. Later I would learn that we were drawn together in a life as slaves due to a previous life in India.
My mother once told me that life is like an onion; you have to peel back the layers in order to understand. All I knew at the time was that I needed to find my inner truth and how to create differently.
********The Old Barn**********
In 1993 I remembered several traumatic events as this young slave girl. One of the most traumatic was being used to gratify, in a sexual manner, the owner of the plantation and even some of his men. I have omitted many of the more graphic memories. I don’t feel it is necessary for you, the reader, to experience them with me. I will however, discuss the implications of those memories as they apply to past life patterns and emotional content.
There was much to heal from in this life......again and again I was reminded of the cruel treatment I/she endured. My meditations were always filled with emotions, feelings and thoughts that included, but were not limited to, guilt, shame, and fear. In the experiences that follow, I was able to piece together memories that are historically consistent with African American slaves during the Civil War. For me, the memories revealed much more; they held deeply hidden historical secrets, secrets that are to me, although I am a white woman now, very personal.
I closed my eyes...allowing myself to fall into a deep altered state. I see....The Light..... it is so beautiful, pulsating in and out, swirling purple and violet hues. Then came the fear, the shame, the feelings of being forced into an old barn. I was taken to the barn, many times. I was only thirteen years old. The master took me there and made me do sexual favors for him. I hate him. I hate him so much I wished he would die. But I have no choice, I belong to him. I am his property.
Time shifts... I am older, maybe fifteen. I am hiding in the barn in a stall, peaking through the wooden slates. I can clearly see a nine year-old black boy with suspenders, wearing a flat-brimmed round hat walking down the center isle. There is a white man with him and he has his arm around him. This man is in charge of all the slaves...he beats them. Sometimes for no reason. He is telling the boy lies and he is filling his head with things that are simply not true. This man always lies, especially to the slaves. The boy looks so unsure and confused, but in awe that the plantation owner’s headmaster is being so nice to him.
I curled up behind the stall wall, cringing, ‘cause I knew what was going to happen. The boy cried out,.... many times. When the head massa was finished with the boy he pushed him out the back door of the barn and then picked him up and threw him into the back of a wagon. He glared at the sobbing boy and said, "You ain't coming back." The boy struggled and cried as two men came from around the corner and took him away. The headmaster just brushed off his pants and shut the barn door. I stayed hidden behind the stall, holding my breath, holding the fear, and when he finally left, I cried. I cried until I had no more tears. What had happened to the boy, had happened to me more than once. It was a terrible thing the men did -- to the women and to the children.
Suddenly I am moving back in time....I am younger, only fourteen. I am standing in the parlor of a large white plantation house. The Mrs. of the house called me by my name. I could hear her heavy southern drawl as she said, "Clara, Clara come here."
I am wearing a white apron and a long dress with a high collar and long sleeves. My hair is pulled back into a neat bun close to my head. I look to the ground as I entered the parlor. I could feel the small child within me moving and kicking about. I am five months pregnant.
There is a man, an older gent with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard who is sitting in his chair by the window. He is the plantation owner. He is smoking his pipe, and wearing reading glasses. I notice his huge desk filled with important papers and books.
The Mrs. of the house mumbled something to him about me "gettin fat.” The man never looked up at me, but puffed on his pipe and said, "She's with child, Em." The woman grunted in disgust and said, "Stupid child, why'd you do that for?" I paused, looked up at her and said, "I don't know ma'm." Knowing all the while that the child I was carrying was her husband’s; the very man who sat next to her. He looked up at me briefly with a mean look in his eye. I immediately looked back down. The Mrs. excused me to continue my work. I curtsied and went back to my ironing.
I saw myself doing many tasks throughout the day, folding and putting away sheets into large hall closets which were made of beautiful cherry wood. I had to dust the large furniture in the house and check that things were in their proper place. I walked into one of the bedrooms and pulled back the drapes. I marveled that under the heavy drapes were finer curtains made of a delicate and fine, white lace. I turned to pick up a food tray which was laying next to a young woman’s bed.
Time shifts…….. it is another day, maybe a week or two later. I am in one of the bedrooms with an old black woman. A young white woman is in labor. All of the white folks had gone into town, but she was not feeling well and stayed at home with us. She is in terrible pain, and is screaming and crying. There is blood everywhere. She is hemorrhaging and loosing her baby. It is too soon for her to have it. I am very young, only fourteen and I am pregnant too. She is about five months along, just like me.
I am scared, real scared. I can feel myself trembling with fear. Hours seem to pass when finally the baby boy emerges -- dead at birth. There is a lot of blood and mucus on him. The old black woman wrapped him up in a sheet. I tried desperately to calm the white woman, telling her it wasn’t her fault, God works in mysterious ways. She sobbed hysterically; the loss was too great for her.
The experiences of that time were painful and traumatic. Bits and pieces would come into view, and although the memories were buried deep within my subconscious, by uncovering them and bringing the events to consciousness, I was able to let go of the emotional baggage. Specifics are not always necessary. What is necessary however, is the emotional content. The emotions, the feelings and the thoughts that carried over life time after life time, and the strength of these gave me an even stronger conviction that my past life memories were true.
The Buddhists hold a high regard for the power of thought. The Egyptians also understood the power of consciousness and that the state of one’s inner being is what determines the outcome of his/her lives. The followers of the Egyptian Osirian way understood that to believe or not to believe is one and the same, that ultimately what you believe is what you will create around you. Their goal was illumination within and they taught the importance of being good, being just, and being charitable like Buddhists, Hindu’s, Jewish, and Christian faiths. They also understood that to be evil, cruel, or egotistical, whether you believe or not, still places you in the future with the consequences for your actions.
My research pointed again and again to me, I was the reason. I was the cause. I was responsible. Not because I was a bad person or that I deserved to be a slave, but because my thoughts, feelings and emotions lead me there.