Discussion in 'Past Life Memories' started by landsend, Aug 30, 2018.
Don’t stopppppp telling
Yup more cliffhangers when the story is getting more and more interesting
Am writing the next post... may be up today or tomorrow depending.
Thanks for reading.
Part Eight (Redemption)
Following the discovery of the accuracy of the wedding memory, I became even more restless. I had hoped to disprove the whole experience, but instead I pretty much received confirmation. I hadn’t bargained for that.
It bought more questions: What about the other memories? How accurate were they? Especially the darker memories? Where on Earth do I go from here?
And, there was the fact I was pregnant. I worried about what what was going on in my head, being pregnant and experiencing this. My whole view point, and way of viewing life was being turned upside down. The whole experience, so far, had changed me. It had opened my eyes. One thing was to ‘believe’ in reincarnation, or that life exists after death. Another thing is to experience the truth for yourself.
My fear of death completely vanished. I now had conclusive proof of the continuation of the soul.
It was a very surreal thing to be opening, effectively, to a deep and buried masculine within myself, whilst being at the height of pregnancy. I had to learn to laugh at myself, or go crazy. I could see the parallels of myself and my past life. My previous self had their first child abroad young, and so did I. We both would have three children. Except the shoe was on the other foot. I was now the primary caregiver. I could now see first hand how it feels to be the one left at home. A role I had always resented with such a passion, one which had caused power struggles and resentments. But here I was. Living this life.
I felt a deep, dark grief in my daily life. A depressive feeling. A restlessness. The urges were there to contact my previous family. I found the eldest son had a webpage detailing aspects of his dad’s MIA/POW case. On that website was an email address. He was just an email away.
But I couldn’t. I mean, what could I say? And – truthfully, there was a feeling of shame. Shame of who I am now. Shame of having left them behind. And everything in between. I just felt I couldn’t bring up the topic of reincarnation to him, even if I did write to him. And then there was the ethical question, was it even right to just intrude in their life again? I’d just have to abide in this pain. So I struggled on.
Finding the wedding posting seemed to open me up again to more memories. I decided to meditate again. A few trickled through. Or sometimes they would just come whilst dropping off to sleep/waking up. All of these snippets were seemingly random, little puzzle pieces.
Here’s some of them.
April 29 2017 –
I’m a young boy.
I’m sitting on my daddies shoulders. My daddy is tall. I can see far, we’re downtown in the city and there’s crowds and crowds of people around. Everyone’s happy. There’s a marching band out in the street. And soldiers! Real soldiers! They’re marching by.
My brother is holding onto my mothers hand. He’s scared by all the commotion. This is the first moment I recall wanting to be soldier. I had it set in my heart from then on.
Again, I’m a young boy. We’re catching a train. This train is a pretty amazing. It’s not a steam train, it’s a diesel. It’s bright red and white, round and angular. My brother and me are dressed smart in brown coats and knickers. I’m real excited. My parents have a couple of suitcases. We enter the train, it’s very clean, new and modern inside.
In my research I found that J and his family moved from his hometown at some point and the family settled in another state. I still don’t know the year of this, but I wrote 1947. Researching, I discovered The Texas Special, which matches the line, aesthetics and timeframe.
More childhood memories that I had on May 23 pointed toward J’s strained relationship with his father, his distance, how he had imprinted his viewpoints on women to him. J was very, very young in these memories. Between the ages of 1 to 2 years old.
More memories of captivity came to me.
May 15 2017 -
I’m tied up by the rafters, hanging by the hands. I’ve lost the sensation in my hands/arms. I’m drifting in/out of consciousness, can see that my body is streaked with blood. They’ve left me here so long, beaten me with sharp bamboo sticks to the point I lost consciousness. That’s why I can ‘see’ my body.
This is punishment for not complying. Perhaps I’d tried to escape.
I’m being led to a nearby village/hooch. There’s an impression that my hands are tied back and I’m being escorted by armed men. It’s dark. Think I’m blindfolded.
Inside this hooch, I’m showing a small group of Orientals my hands and fingers. Am I showing them how to calculate distances/range using hands and fingers as a reference?
Then there was the following, which seemed to continue on from the memory of ‘dying’ from dysentery:
May 24 -
‘They’ think I’m dead. There is always the same image of the androgynous Vietnamese in the conical hat, using the muzzle of her rifle to examine me. I open my eyes, and look up at them, then lose consciousness.
Next, I’m in a large hut with people around—they appear Oriental. ‘They’ feed me some sort of milky broth out of bowls. The beds are made on the floor, the beds are mats, really not beds at all. This seems to be a makeshift/jungle hospital.
I’m so weak that it takes a long time to recover. I see flashes of me learning to stand again, learning to walk. There’s no ‘meat on my bones’. My muscles have apostrophised so much that I just cannot walk. I slowly regain strength and learn to use my body again.
I’m a changed person. My experience of dying and coming back has changed my perspective. Then there was my vision and my promise to God*. I have not forgotten that. It has become my purpose in life.
Whilst I recover, I start interacting with my captors. Something that wasn’t there before, is there now. Although I’m apart from the captors, we eat together in the same space. I listen to them, and speak to them. Their treatment of me improves.
*This is something came to me on several occasions in the moment recalling the NDE. I recall, that, in the moment that J was dying, he was pleading desperately for his life. He asked for redemption from Mother Mary, and Jesus. He asked for atonement for his sins. During the delirium that followed, there was a bright light. This bright light could be effectively described as God. God left J with the impression that he would be allowed back, if he gave his life up to Him from there on. All the fear drained from J after that experience. A trust in God developed. He no longer feared for his fate. I still feel, to this day, I’m am fulfilling this promise to God. Not God in the traditional sense, but God in the universal spirit sense, following a path of light. Being a warrior of light, truth and justice.
As bizarre as this sounds, this directly relates to a phobia and childhood habit of mine. The phobia has been persistent since I can remember, and still persists. The phobia was so strong as a kid, I could not even think about it without it triggering me. The phobia, effectively, is a) a fear of being sick b) a fear of soiling myself. Both of these two fears mingled together. They were so strong that as I kid I recall I would not go anywhere for any period of time if I could not be reassured there were toilets. I asked my mom recently if anything could have triggered this fear, and she said she couldn’t recall a specific incident. I’ve tried to meditate on this, and didn’t find any related memory from this life. I was so afraid of defecating when I was very young that I would hold myself for periods of time.
Furthermore, this fear was triggered again whilst I was around eight years old on a school trip. We were visiting a cathedral. In the cathedral, the guide showed us, a bunch of barely ten year olds, the old engravings on the walls of men and women being tortured in hell for their sins.
That night I started reading the bible every single night before bed. I had it in my head that I was going to, for sure, go to hell. Every part of me felt dirty. My family is not religious and as kids we never went to church apart for weddings, etc. I thought that if I read the bible every night, God would forgive me, I would not get sick, and I would not die. It was one of those silly things I had in my head – one that followed me with this phobia. If I thought about the phobia, I could make it come true, so I didn’t think about it. I’d then make pacts with myself. Like, get to the end of this time period, and then when that passed, I’d make another time marker for not getting sick. These pacts with myself pretty much stayed with me up into adulthood.
Finally, another habit formed that lasted pretty much till I was around 16. Every time I went to the toilet to defecate (specifically to defecate), I’d say a prayer.
Going to the toilet to defecate still very much terrified me. I thought that I would have uncontrollable diarrhoea, in the back of my head. This prayer was always centered on Mother Mary and Jesus. I used to pray for their mercy/redemption. It was simple, in my head if I prayed – I would not get sick.. Then I finished the prayer signing myself with a cross. Again, this is something I had seen in movies occasionally, but to which my family did not do.
I used to wonder why ‘we’ did not focus much on Mary and Jesus. Now, my family is not Catholic. (J was Catholic.) I knew so little of Catholicism that I had no clue about their focus on the Virgin Mary and Jesus till I moved to a Catholic country (Spain).
Behind that prayer was an unholy fear, and desperation.
I had completely forgotten (or pushed out) the embarrassing aspects of my phobia. I did not put two and two together until I started recalling it in 2016/2017. I had not told anyone about it until I started to recall these memories.
Thanks again for reading.
Have to say this is proving useful in helping me piece together all the info I have scattered everywhere. I need to look at a recordings/journals whilst I type this up. Currently I'm trying to piece together what happened to J post capture, and I have a few recordings I need to transcribe. Writing here is motivating me to do all this!
I'm seeing very curious and odd things leading up to the shooting which I'm having a very hard time believing, but if true, could be a way of verifying J coming back to the States... IF is the question. The constant doubting continues to this date I'm afraid.
Here I am again. This one is a long one I'm afraid, so bear with me as I get it all typed up.
Part Nine (A Long Way to Tennessee)
I still was battling with feelings of whether to contact the family or not, which was exacerbated by finding a documentary where the eldest son of J speaks about his dad’s MIA/POW case. Apart from seeing him alive and well (and older – it was made in the early 2000’s), there were more photographs of J that I had never seen before. It was very odd. Watching the documentary was like watching ‘my’ life flash before my eyes. It unlocked yet more grief. I could see how painful it was for J’s son to talk about his dad, about having to put a grave stone for his dad’s memory but have no body to inter, have no word of his dad’s fate.
Watching him triggered me to recall, once again, the crash of the helicopter, the capture – and something else. Something that disturbed me and troubled me that I woke up and dismissed it immediately. It seemed too ‘out there’, too surreal. It was like something you’d read in a cheap spy novel. I told my subconscious it would have to do a lot better than that. I didn’t believe any of it.
I just wanted, and still want, the truth. The truth of what happened to J, and what happened to those left behind in that corner of SE Asia following the Vietnam War. That is paramount to me, and why I treat every memory that filters through my brain as suspicious. I have to find proof.
So doubt very much followed.
In between during meditations, or just dropping off to sleep/waking up, things would come to me. They were mostly scenes of being a POW. Many of these disturbed me so much, I’d wake up crying, or calling out. Sometimes I could not see anything during these visions, but there was a sensation of utmost fear.
There appeared to be something wrong with J’s left foot. This I believe he injured during the crash.
May 31 (2017) – Prisoner-of-War
I was standing somewhere, possibly a hut. I’m so weak, I have to hold onto something for support. Can barely stand. My whole body has little to no weight, and my clothes hang off me.
I’m looking at my foot in despair.
There is something wrong with my feet/leg, my left leg in particular. The calf muscle of the leg(s) have atrophied, particularly the left leg. Both the lower portion of the legs/feet are violent red in colour, with a scabbed appearance. The left foot is swollen compared to the rest of the limb, to the point I can only see my big toe and the last toe. The other toes are either hidden beneath the swell of the foot, or missing/removed.
Now I’m down by a small stream, or body of water. It’s daytime. I’m cleaning soiled clothing. I have the clothing set against a rock. Using another stone in my hand, I bash the clothing in the stream in an attempt to clean the soiled article. It’s a very crude method for cleaning clothes. Probably these clothes are very dirty and soiled from when I was unable to make it to the ‘latrine’, whatever, or wherever that was.
Jun 3 (2017) -
I’m whimpering and crying, hyperventilating. I can’t see anything. It’s pitch black.
Maybe I’m blindfolded. My hands tied back. ‘They’ are doing something to my left foot. I’m shouting out to them in a foreign language (probably Vietnamese)—I can’t recall the words. I’m pleading about my foot.
There’s the feeling that ‘they’ have a needle, perhaps containing an antibiotic, or perhaps they intend to drain the foot. It’s not clear what they intend to do.
In June 2017, I received more confirmation. These came to me after experiencing another crippling bout of doubt.
These memories seemed to pertain to J’s first tour in Vietnam.
The first came whilst I was relaxing in bed:
Jun 17 - ‘Min’
It’s a bright, sunny day. We are in a rice paddy, with peasants working in the fields. The paddy is a clearing surrounded by forest, not far from a river.
We are here patrolling.
One woman in particular catches my eye, a beautiful young Vietnamese wearing a conical shaped hat and a white blouse. She has in her hands a basket. She notices me watching her, and she looks away, bashful. I feel that my rifle is slung over my shoulder, and loose between my hands.
Then, suddenly, someone shouts something like ‘Min! Min loi!’. Immediately, I hit the ground, and all hell breaks lose. An explosion. I cling to the ground and my rifle as dust and dirt flies through the air. I’m deafened by the sudden explosion.
The voice who warned me and my men sounded female. I wonder if it is the woman who I made eye contact with just moments before.
I wrote that down, including the Vietnamese (to the best of my ability to write it). I thought like most of my other memories I would be unable to verify it.
However, I decided to persist and look to see if I could find what it meant.
After trying different variations of spellings, looking through translators and Vietnamese dictionaries, I came across the following:
Mìn – in Vietnamese means (land) mine.
Lôi – is associated with mines, ‘địa lôi’ means landmine.
It was not the first (and not the last) time that I’d hear Vietnamese (and other foreign languages) being spoken during these visions. But it was the first time I was able to directly verify what was being said.
It was a small confirmation for me, enough for me to feel I wasn’t going completely off my rocker.
The second confirmation is a little more strange.
First, a little background info. On the webpage that J’s eldest son had created about his dad, there is a small section which included information about his dad’s first tour. A paragraph outlined where he had been in Vietnam according to the books. In the first half of his tour, he had been in III Corps, situated at an A-camp near the Cambodian border, the XO (Executive officer) of a 12 man team. Then he went onto HQ’s in Nha Trang, and finally to Saigon.
I felt there was something missing from that information (this relates to another memory I have, which I’ll get to later).
Finally, on this page was a photograph. It was the photograph of the 12-man A-team. It stated in the paragraph above that J had received a medal for an incident where two of the men from the A-team were shot, and killed, and one was missing. According to the citation, J was able to help resolve the incident, and, under intense enemy fire, help retrieve the missing team mate.
In my research I learnt that A-teams are force multipliers. They are Special Forces qualified men who are banded together prior to being deployed (in this case, to Vietnam). Once in Vietnam, they were assigned to a camp (called an A-camp). From here they would advise and train local forces, to, effectively detract and prevent enemy forces from occupying an area. They were usually situated in strategic locations, e.g near the border between countries.
I was drawn to look at that photograph of the twelve men (including J) over and over. The men’s faces, and names were very familiar to me. It didn’t take me much time to memorise each of their faces and names. Three men always stood out to me. Two of those men were the men who were shot and killed in that aforementioned incident. The other is a man who appeared in a few visions since the very beginning of opening up to these memories.
I wrote in length in my journal about how these men made me feel. I felt an intense sadness, and guilt when I looked at the men who were shot. They were good soldiers, and above all, good men. I felt they, of all people did not deserve what happened to them, and that I (yes, me, it still felt personal) had failed them.
Research showed me they were both married, and both had children.
One of them who was shot was the Master Sargent, incredibly talented as a soldier, he had fought in WWII and Korea. He appeared in newspapers for his prowess in Korea, and according to articles I found, he was the first guy to have married a Korean and bought her back to the States. (If you look this up, another couple will appear as the ‘first’ but checking the dates it was definitely him and his wife. Not sure why this is – probably they did not care for the publicity). That was the sort of guy he was though. Despite all this, he did not boast about anything. He was the ‘quiet professional’.
The other guy was young, and had a little girl. In one comment on a memorial, another guy left a comment saying how musical he had been, how he had loved his wife and child, and about his love of country music.
Despite feeling all these very powerful feelings, I had not, up to that point, had any memory of these two men. They were, however, very much on my mind.
Then, one day (my journal states this was June 23 2017), I was dropping off to sleep. I had meant to get up and finish washing the dishes, so I was struggling not to fall asleep. Anyway, whilst trying to stay awake, I could hear a song chorus repeating over and over in my head.
‘It’s a long, long way from somewhere? To Tennessee’
Whilst I struggled to figure out where ‘Somewhere’ was (it sounded like Saigon –or somewhere similar), I could hear in the background of this chorus a woman singing in an ‘oooh oooh oooh’ fashion, a piano playing and a fiddle. The chorus was sung in a droning fashion (almost moaning). It sounded country/western in fashion.
Which is very odd, considering I had never, at that point, listened to country and western. I had not been exposed to it much apart from the obvious Johnny Cash and my mom listening sometimes to Dolly Parton when I grew up.
I got up, and remembered I had to wash the dishes. Grumpy grogginess was ensured.
As I was in the kitchen, rinsing suds off the pots and pans, it suddenly came back to me. That song! I’d heard a song in my mind.
I decided, for the hell of it, to type it in Google on my phone to see if anything came up. My expectations were not too high. A couple of lyric websites came up, ones that seemed to pertain to more modern songs. I was pretty much telling myself ‘see, told ya, it’s not real’ when I clicked on a video on YouTube. The song was called ‘Long Way To Tennessee’ and it was song by a Bobby Bare. The song had around 5k views, so, not really popular.
I clicked, stood and listened. I was really in disbelief at this point. This was definitely the song. It was eerily familiar. Like listening to a song I hadn’t heard in a long, long time.
I found the lyrics:
"Long Way To Tennessee"
I'm a long, long way from where I want to be
In the Arizona prison they've got me
And until they set me free, oh, oh, me
It's a long, long way from here to Tennessee.
Oh, my mouth is dry with dust my throat is raw
How I miss those big green trees in Arkansas
On the way to where I'll be when they set me free
But it's a long, long way from here to Tennessee.
A long, long way from me to the girl that I love so
Will she wait for me oh Lord I don't know
I know that I've done wrong but friends I've paid the price
Back in Tennessee I left sweet paradise.
But until they set me free, oh, oh, me
It's a long, long way from here to Tennessee.
It's a long, long way from here to Tennessee.
It's a long, long way from here to Tennessee...
There was the women singing in the ooh ooh fashion. There was even a fiddle and a piano, as I had heard.
I’m pretty sure I was recalling that we changed the word ‘here’ to wherever we were at that time.
I also found that the song was recorded and released in 1964 as part of an album. J’s first tour was in 1965. So, the time frame matched.
All this pretty much shocked me. It made me, once again, take all this seriously and was the encouragement I needed to keep going with it and not dismiss what I was receiving.
I could imagine J and his buddies in a bar, singing this song. Especially I thought of the young man who was shot, who had been musical and who had a love of country music. I wondered if it was he who had been singing that song.
That same day, I recalled the following. This has been a reoccurring image, which I saw in greater detail following hearing that song:
I’m sitting alone in a dark room at a desk or table. It’s dark. I’m feeling so empty, so angry. Something terrible has occurred, and I feel it’s all my fault. This, I feel, is following the incident where the two men were shot and killed.
It’s really late, probably the middle of the night and I’m drinking heavily. There’s a handgun in front of me on the table, and I’m staring at it. Contemplating. The thought crosses that I’d very much like to take my own life.
Then, I’m joined by someone. It’s a guy (he’s a big dark guy, not black but not white. Probably Hispanic – the same guy who appears in a few visions). Anyway, he pulls up a chair opposite me. I don’t stop him. (Maybe because he has bought more alcohol.) He stays with me, and we drink pretty much in silence together. He was pretty much there for me in a way that saved me from doing something stupid.
I’m pretty sure that this guy is the third guy in the photograph who always catches my eye. He is a big Hispanic guy, so matches the description. Curiously enough, this guy always reminds me of my current day husband, but I could write a whole post about all that. My husband was with me when I discovered the Bobby Bare song, and the same feeling of familiarity that I felt was shared with him.
A couple of months later, on Aug 16 (2017), I had the following dream:
I’m stuck on base (that’s the feeling I get). There’s buildings with corrugated roofs. I can see sandbags piled up ontop of each other. The sunlight is harsh, dirt and dust is flying in the air. There’s trucks that came to and from the base continually stirring up the dirt.
I’m informed that one of my men has suffered a head injury. Two Americans and a group of Vietnamese are sent out to relieve the situation. Not long after, I’m informed again that one of the men has been shot through the abdomen. I asked for a ‘SITREP’ (SITUATION REPORT). There are Vietnamese casualties. The vehicles coming send dust and dirt, flying around the base. There’s just a sense of chaos.
Now I’m in a room, with a map, planning what to do, but there is a sense of urgency, that the situation needs to be relieved, fast.
At this point (in August) I was heavily pregnant and having a lot of vivid dreams.
I almost forgot that dream till I woke up and read a text message from my husband. He said he had been listening to ‘that’ song by Bobby Bare. Suddenly, the dream came back.
Before that dream, I had been dreaming of a friend of ours, one who has the same name as the last name as the guy who was shot through the head. He always reminds me of that guy. He is my husbands best friend in this life, and was the bestman at our wedding. Anyway, in this dream, I saw him mourning at a funeral outside a church, wearing black. I was comforting him and telling him ‘this was how it was meant to be’. Curiously in this life our good friend has never married. I wondered what that dream was about, and asked my husband to inquire to see if everyone in his family was well. Everything appeared to be in order.
I felt very drawn to research the guy who was shot. Some weeks before the dream, I found the name of his wife and the fact that she was from Tennessee in a newspaper clipping which discussed that a bridge in West Virginia (where he was from) was being named in his honor. I found a family memorial which showed him playing music with his family, sitting with his guitar.
Then, a couple of weeks after having this dream, I felt drawn to research him yet again. In September I found it. I found that his wife had passed on. The obituary stated that she had passed away on August 16 (2017). The very day that I had those dreams.
This must be so weird. She passed away and probably wants to see her deceased husband in the afterlife. He will not be there or perhaps his Higher Self is there to greet her. And you noticed.
Yes, I was really worried that something had occurred to my friends family when I woke up, I had the impression of an older lady passing on, so thought of my friends mother.
It does not appear that the lady ever remarried, and she had no other children. In fact there is a photo of the grave stone where he (the guy who was shot in VN) is buried, and it seems that her name was engraved on that stone years before she passed on, maybe when the stone was made. It had her birthdate and a dash --
Really think that they truly loved each other, which makes the whole thing very tragic. I'm not saying he was my friend, but there are some very odd coincidences. As well our friend has always had trouble in the love department, despite having everything going for him. Ever since meeting him I always had very strange, strong 'karmic' feelings with him, as if we had unresolved business. I could never pinpoint what exactly.
The thing is, I'm not sure if he was him, if they are meant to be together, at least in this life. She passed on in 2017, and my friend is now in his 30's. It's not impossible, but I do wonder.
As for his higher self being there, it's possible. This is one of the things that has occurred to me, and to which I have witnessed in out-of-body experiences whilst my 'body' was sleeping. I've recalled some of these through meditation that at the time I had no recollection of, but it seems the memory of it was stored somewhere.
It's curious that in the dream we were outside the church mourning, not inside the church. Like there was a barrier between physical mundane world, and the spiritual. Maybe that's symbolic of the barriers that separate him from her. In the dream I was very reassuring and knew that's how it's meant to be. Little me in daily life thinks the whole thing is very unfair. Yet there must be a reason for this to occur, one that little me down here can't see.
Post Ten – (Contact)
As the days went by, I was feeling increasingly restless. I couldn’t sleep very well, and during the day was overcome by bouts of grief. I felt like there was a well of pain inside me. An helpless feeling was also paramount. Well, all things seem to be pointing toward me having lived as ‘J’ in a previous life. That was the most obvious conclusion I could come to. This was not a pleasant conclusion. I had left that life unresolved. The conclusion was depressing. But at least now I could pinpoint where these feelings came from. Throughout my life I had gone through bouts of severe feelings of depression, and restlessness. I used to fight those feelings, and rebuke myself before I understood their true source.
Considering the eldest son still maintained a website trying to determine his dad’s fate, I felt the pull to contact him. Some distant part of me hoped I might be able to resolve some of those unfinished feelings.
I had read Jenny Cockell’s story in her book, ‘Yesterday’s Children’ whilst I was undergoing this. It helped me feel, at least, that I was not totally insane.
I decided to reach out to her, and contacted her via Facebook to hear what she said about contacting family members from previous lives.
I wrote to her this message, dated the 15 June 2017:
My name is -- I am twenty-six, live in the UK and am married with two children. I’m writing to you regarding a former life that has been in the background of my mind much of my life, but was bought to the forefront the end of last year. I picked up your book, Yesterday’s Children, following a period of intense recall that occurred to me the end of last year. The former life in question has been something I have felt innately since childhood, become more aware of in my teenage years and revealed itself to me slowly. However, I did not have the name of who I was and, apart from a dream that I had of my possible death in which I was shot through the abdomen (in the place of my present day birth mark), I did not have concise memories. To cut a long story incredibly short, I was able to locate who I was, and this in turn triggered very intense, emotional recalls that were like waking trances. During these trances, my manner of being alters, including vocabulary and accent changes. My past life self effectively comes forward and my present day self takes a back seat. I never feel completely out of control during these trances, nor do I feel ‘alien’. I am aware of it happening, and I’m comfortable with the person who comes forward, for indeed it feels like a missing part of me that has always, in truth, been there. When I read your book, Yesterday’s Children, I was struck by how you felt the same feelings of having left things unresolved, and you were able to reach some resolution. That is the main reason I am writing to you now, as I am unsure on how to progress. I know that the children of my previous self are alive, and one in particular has been actively looking to resolve his father’s case since the early 90’s. In his words, he wants to find out the truth as to what happened. I managed to acquire a documentary from America regarding the issue, and on the documentary, along with photographs of my previous self, was my previous self’s son, living, breathing and older, talking about his father, how he went missing, the mysteries and cover-ups regarding his case. I was particularly struck by the son talking how he had to put a tombstone somewhere for his dad, despite there being no remains. It has taken me a lot to share this to anyone and so far only my husband is aware of this. I know that you were able to contact your previous family, and in doing so reach a resolution, but in truth I am unsure on how to progress with this, and indeed if ‘progressing’ is the right thing to do. Because this is such a delicate, understudied subject, I felt the need to reach out to somebody who would understand. I asked myself when writing this to you what exactly it is I want to achieve, and I believe I am just looking for some reassurance and advice from someone who has been there. I also recognise the need to stop ‘hiding’ behind my shell, there is the inner feeling that the only way I can reach a resolution is if I am willing to step out of my comfort zone and reach out to others. Finally, I want to thank you for allowing me to write to you, and for taking the time to read this. Kindest regards, --
She took the time to reply me, and her reply was very helpful. She told me that she had kept her message to the family very short, and concise, very gentle and to the point. She also told me that she had contacted another family regarding another life she recalled in between her current and the one detailed in that book, and that she had put off contacting the family for years. When she finally did, the mother of that life had passed on, and she was informed by the son of the mother that she would have been open to what she told him. She felt some regret that she had not contacted the family sooner.
Her main advice to me though was to mention to the family a few things only the family would know, and to only contact the family if it felt right to do so.
Jenny seemed a nice lady, lucid and sane. That in itself was reassuring to me.
On July 4 2017, it was the wee hours of the morning. Couldn’t sleep. I had an email typed out that I had written and re-written about a dozen times over the past weeks. I was staring at it and had my finger hovering over the send key. I planned to send it out to the eldest son of ‘J’ but didn’t believe I’d actually do it.
The email was very general. Nothing strange. Just that I was from the UK, had been looking into the POW/MIA issue in America and came across his dad’s case. I wrote that I felt drawn to look into his dad’s case, and had found some newspaper clipping’s regarding his dad, and if he wanted them I wouldn’t mind sharing. That was pretty much it.
Still, I couldn’t send it.
I fell asleep staring at the computer screen, and some very brief flashes came to me, they seemed to be in chronological order:
I’m young, and physically very fit. This looks like the flashes of training I’ve seen before (pre-Vietnam tours). I’m climbing a rope up the side of a very large, steep obstacle on the side of cliff/hill. At the top of the hill is a beautiful landscape, with sweeping vistas of mountains and evergreen trees. There is a sense of achievement of having reached the top.
Next, I’m in a jungle with dense vegetation. I’m drinking water from a large leaf.
Now I have my hands tied back. I’m being led some place by an Oriental with a rifle.
I’m lying on the floor of a bamboo hooch, nothing but skin and bones. My skin is red and peeling. I’m very sick.
I’m drinking some sort of milky broth from a bowl.
Now I’m sitting and eating with a group of Orientals, inside a hooch. I appear to have a rifle in his hands.
I see a flash where I am with a small group of Orientals, high in the mountainous jungle. Again appear to have a rifle, but seem to be wearing non-combatant clothes. Covert operations comes to mind – mindless/numbness.
There is a plane trip, on a non-military type aircraft. I’m walking across the airstrip to board the plane, an unspecified airliner.
There is a conversation in a dim room between ‘A’ and others behind a desk or table. The conversation is formal in tone. One of the men stands out as being Eastern European. He is the one who initiates conversation. They interrogate me, asking me where I have been, what I know, and how my loyalties align.
There is an impression of a Visa of some kind. This is some time after the previous image. Again, an impression of moving from one place to another by aircraft.
I’m sent back – where? I’m alone, in a darkened room, sitting at a desk. I have a letter or document with important information in front of me on the desk. This document or letter seems to pertain to issue of men left behind after the VN War. Sense that this document has highly classified information, that could potentially wreak havoc if leaked.
There is the feeling that perhaps I was attempting to leak this information. And I was aware that leaking this information would put myself in personal danger.
When I ‘came to’ from these flashes, my finger was still hovering over the send button. My finger went down, apparently of its own accord. The email whooshed by, slipping out of my virtual hands. It was done.
Let's hope it goes/went well.
I woke up in the email feeling a tonne of regret. I avoided checking my email all morning, pretty much rebuking myself, asking myself what I was trying to gain.
I told myself to man up and just get it over with. Lo and behold, pretty much received a reply straight away. J’s son was very courteous, said he’d be interested in seeing any newspaper clippings I found. I forwarded him a folder I already had prepared (you know, just in case I finally got the courage to reach out and make contact). There was a lot of stuff there, including information I’d found about the men J’s dad had served with. I figured even if I didn’t get to talk to J’s son properly, at least he’d be able to know more about the men that his dad served with. This was something that I felt the need to share.
Making that first contact was a huge step for me, and lifted a tiny bit of that weight I had been carrying around.
After a couple of emails sharing what I’d found, I had a few questions. One question that kept plaguing my mind was if his dad had done two or three tours in Vietnam overall. Some places I had seen J’s son say that his dad had done two tours prior to his third where he went missing. But in my research of newspaper articles, and figuring out the dates on the timeline, it just didn’t sit well with me. The dates did not add up.
However I did find a newspaper clipping that stated his dad did a 15 month tour of duty in Vietnam for his first tour. This was unusual. Remember that he was working on an intel operation in Saigon in the last couple of months of his first tour, according to the books. According to the books, this tour should have ended in February, and he should have gone home. However, I found a clipping that stated he was home from Vietnam in May of 1966. That means there are around three unaccounted months where I have no clue where he was.
There are some shady memories involving a sensitive operation, possibly located in Cambodia (before any US involvement in Cambodia was even known), and I wanted to try and find a date frame for this. I did not correlate this to the second tour, but to those extra three months on the end of his first tour.
I asked J’s son if he had any info on his dad’s tour. For a long time, he did not reply me. He’s busy, I thought, and just let it go. After a while, I sent another email just to see if he’d received my email. He replied and referred me to the info available on his webpage. Of course I already knew all that info on the webpage, and it was not helpful. I didn’t want to be intrusive, so left it a couple of weeks.
I realised if I was to justify my intense interest in his dad’s life, I’d need a good reason. I’d have to explain myself more.
So, again I wrote an email, one that I kept re-writing until it sounded right. I never intended to actually send this email, but, once more, I did end up sending it.
In this email I explained that after reading about his dad’s case, I’d had a series of intense ‘dreams’ that could pertain to his dad’s life. Dreams of course was only partially correct in some of the instances. I just used the word dream, because I felt it was an easier to digest concept than ‘vision’. I explained that the ‘dreams’ had provoked me to look deeper into his dad’s life, hence the newspaper clippings.
I explained that one of the more vivid dreams was the one that I thought could be his wedding day. I said: ‘The dream was very detailed and emotional. His wife to be was pregnant, I saw that the best man was his brother who was in the Navy and I think maybe your dad collapsed or felt faint at the altar, there was an impression of being overwhelmed.’
I then closed the email saying I was sorry if all of that was horribly intrusive, but that I didn’t know how to express my interest with him without being entirely honest. I apologised once more if I had caused any offense, and just left the email saying that his dad’s case weighed very heavily on my heart, and my desire for the fate of his dad to be resolved.
Cue a few days of anxiety after sending that. He’s never going to reply me, I thought. And I wouldn’t blame him, either. I mean, what on Earth would I think if the shoe was on the other foot, and some stranger sent me all these weird emails about my missing father? I’d be pretty flabbergasted to say the least.
Two days later he did reply me. He said he wasn’t offended, but he was busy and needed some time to think over what I’d said. He told me to send him an email if I hadn’t heard from him in a week.
The relief of hearing from him again was pretty immense. Especially to hear that I hadn’t caused any offense, which was my biggest worry.
Again, a week went by, and no reply, so I sent out an email just to hear what he thought.
Couple of days later he said he was on a hectic schedule but did not mind discussing his dad’s case with me. I said I didn’t mind phone/email/chat – whatever was more convenient. I left it at that email, and said to myself – he’s busy, just leave it. I didn’t hear from him the whole month. The end of Aug (2017) we tried to arrange a chat, but again, it came to no avail.
I left it at that. I said, I can’t keep doing this. It was – awkward, to say the least. And I found myself waiting for replies and getting hurt. Which I’d then rebuke myself for getting hurt over. Talking to him seemed to open an even bigger well of pain that I hadn’t known existed.
I told myself that that was that, don’t expect anything. Leave it behind. I did not want to harass him, so did not plan to send any further emails.
In September 2017, I gave birth to my daughter after a rocket fast birth. Literally, woke up, had a contraction, called the midwife, called my mom to pick up the kids, and my daughter was born on the bathroom floor just as the midwife sauntered up the street and my mom was leaving with the kids. My husband was there, he delivered the baby. He had to scream for my mom to get a towel as we had none on hand. The midwife came in afterwards. It was so fast I didn’t even feel I’d given birth. Very surreal. My easiest birth yet, I was pretty happy to leave my birthing experiences on that note.
This baby was my smallest, too. My others had been monsters. This one was a little dinky 6 pounder. Very cute, very calm. An easy baby. After my screaming all day baby of before, it was a real blessing. I had, innately, been worried that this little baby might have been affected by my experiences of the previous months, but it seems it was not so. Maybe, even, this baby had stopped me from going off the rails. She had kept me on track.
I felt so good that I started to get back in the swing of things pretty fast. I was feeling pretty good, consumed with new babyness which snuffled all thoughts of past lives and Vietnam. That in itself was refreshing, to say the least. About a week after giving birth, I woke up one morning from a weird dream, one where there was cured meat hanging down the toilet. Weird, I thought. It reminded me of a short story I had written prior to getting pregnant, and prior to having my past life memories. The story was set in Spain’s pre-civil war times, and it was about the fictional massacre of a gypsy community in Spain. I started reading my short story to see why I was thinking of it, when I recalled that the catalyst of the massacre was the gypsy boy in the story stealing some cured meat from the priest of the town.
I thought nothing of it, hopped into the shower, and pretty much the moment the water hit me, I began to hemorrhage. Now, I’ll put this in here. One of my memories I had from the beginning of my past life memories occurring in December 2016 had happened to me whilst showering. I cannot type it all up here, because it is very graphic, but the recall was basically me seeing the outcome of a massacre during the VN War (this I feel occurred in the shady three months extra of J’s tour). The hot water of the shower falling on me, the humidity triggered a flashback because whilst we had been there, witnessing the outcome of this massacre, it had been raining heavily and I stood watching the pale bodies merged together, the rain dripping off me, off them.
Anyway, back to Sep 2017 a week after giving birth. I was still having the post-birth bleed, so thought it was that at first, but then, it just didn’t stop. I called my husband who was downstairs, climbed out the shower and ran to the toilet. He came upstairs and saw for himself what happened. We had a house full of kids so couldn’t just run to the hospital, so had to call my mom, then called for an ambulance.
I sat bleeding, and an ambulance operator asked me if I needed them. I was honestly asking myself is this for real? I stayed pretty calm and detached throughout despite bleeding uncontrollably. It’s reassuring to know that if you aren’t an inch from death, you apparently don’t need an ambulance these days. Anyhow, the bleeding slowed down whilst I was talking and I said I’d call my midwife. My midwife could tell listening to me that I didn’t sound right, so she advised me to head on down to the midwife unit at the hospital. My bathroom, when I left it looked like a murder scene. I asked my mom when she turned up if she didn’t mind cleaning it. I didn’t want the kids seeing that. I sipped on a rehydration drink, feeling dizzy and sick and headed to the hospital.
We were there hours, waiting to be seen. They had no clue why I had bled like that, but put it down to a womb infection (despite having no signs of infection). They gave me a prescription for antibiotics, and we headed down to the hospital dispensary. I had to walk real slow given that I still felt pretty light headed and had not eaten since the morning. I was also terrified of bleeding out again. The dispensary was half way across the other end of the hospital.
When we got there, there was a massive queue to be seen. Something like an half hour wait. I asked my husband to see if he could come back to pick up the prescription later, so I could get home and rest.
I sat down on a chair in the waiting area whilst he queued. There was a TV in the corner of the room. I looked up at it absentminded, wanting to get home. There was some sorta British mid-afternoon quiz show playing on on the TV. As I looked up, a question popped up on the screen. The question was something like: What did the prisoners-of-war in the Vietnam War name their prison in North Vietnam?
It was a multiple choice question. Hanoi Hilton, I mumbled to myself, shaking my head in disbelief.
I could not believe it. What was this? What were the odds? Of me having an hemorrhage on this day, being in hospital that long, to walk here slow, to sit on that chair and look up at a TV screen to see a question (on a British show, not American) related to the very thing that had been bothering me intensely for the past year?
And it had to be North Vietnam prisoners, not South Vietnam prisoners. The question on a daytime TV show would never be about those who didn’t get out.
As we walked out the hospital, I looked to the wall on the left. A local artist had painted scenes of the Second World War, scenes of air planes, tanks, men in uniform, scenes of battle.
What was this trying to tell me? There was no escaping The Nam. The Nam was following me.
Just a post filling a few gaps/some childhood correlations that could relate before I continue. Want to post this here as it will help clarify some things later.
Part Eleven (A Few Childhood Cues)
Coincidences like what happened to me in hospital kept happening to me, and still happen to me to this day. Particularly when I feel very doubtful, or blue, or feel like giving up on this whole thing – lo and behold something very strange happens. The strange event then nudges me on, despite me wanting very much to throw in the towel.
In one instance, me and the husband were watching Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket late one night. One scene flashes up, it’s the beginning of the Tet Offensive. The very moment the bombs start exploding in the movie, someone, out the blue, starts setting off the loudest fireworks I’ve ever heard outside of a formal display right outside our house on the opposite side of the road. It was pretty late too, past eleven at night. The fireworks were banging outside our house, flashing red/yellow through the blinds as the scene of the movie unfolded. I looked at my husband. and he at me. Might’ve joked nervously ‘Charlie’s callin!’ Couldn’t quite believe the timing to say the least.
Going back now to the event of the Bobby Bare song. It was not a solitary recall of one song. It’s happened to me a few times since, usually when dropping off to sleep. Often I forget the lyrics upon waking, or only have the general tune in my head, but it happened again in one instance where I was able to find and verify the song.
I had dropped off to sleep on my armchair, and kept hearing in my mind ‘It’s alllll the same to meee’, sung sorta sad/moaning. Another country and western song, I thought. I typed that one in Google, and nada. Nothing. But I was really determined to find this one. I loaded up the Spotify app, and typed in that portion of the lyric (it meant that the song chorus has to be the same as the song title for this to work). I scrolled down the list, and the results were pretty disappointing, until I found a song called ‘It’s All The Same To Me’ by an artist called ‘Jimmie Skinner’. He looked interesting, so I had a quick look at him and that song. (I did find the song later on YouTube, but its since been taken off for copyright reasons.) The song sounded very similar to the one which had been repeating in my mind just moments before.
'IT'S ALL THE SAME TO ME' by Jimmie Skinner
Now, I don't care if you go asleep,
Babe, it's all the same to me.
Aint nobody gonna worry when you're gone
There aint nobody gonna grieve.
I'm tired of your prowlin around at night,
You never stay home an treat your daddy right.
I don't care if you go asleep,
Baby, it's all the same to me.
Once you were the sweetest gal in town
and I thought you'd always be.
But now you wanna hang around the honkytonks
and listen to the jukebox beat.
You come in each morning at the break of dawn
Your hair all tangled and your rouge all wrong.
I don't care if you go asleep
Babe, it's all the same to me.
You had a way of loving that was all your own
Lord, it nearly drove me wild.
You didn't learn your lovin in the little red school
But let me tell you honey child,
Done took everything that I can stand,
You just don't fit in my future plans.
I don't care if you go asleep,
Babe, it's all the same to me.
Jimmie Skinner, it seems, was a bluegrass/country singer/writer during the 40s-60s. He apparently also distributed country music via a record shop he had and a worldwide catalogue which was popular with the Armed Forces. As a musician, he really was not very well known, and his songs have faded into obscurity, but since discovering him I found myself listening to his songs, over and over. Always I used to get this restless feeling about wanting to listen to some kind of music, but not knowing what. Since finding out this type of music, I no longer have that restless feeling.
Recalling these songs made me remember an odd habit of mine as a child. When I was very very little (probably as young as two), up until I was around ten or so, I used to go off into daydreams, often when I was bored, and start singing songs that I had ‘made up’. These songs would appear fully formed in my mind. The songs were often similar in nature, usually about heartbreak, or sorrow, country/blues sounding, occasionally they had a 50’s rockabilly vibe. I don’t recall precise lyrics, but remember there was a lot of ‘baby this’ ‘baby that’. As I grew up, I rationalised the habit and thought I just had an amazing innate ability for song writing.
I also recall that when singing these songs, I would access a very sad, lonely, nostalgic part of myself, and sometimes bought myself to the brink of tears singing the songs. All very odd things for a young child to do, I now realise. I also recall the feeling of a distinctive, older male presence surrounding me in those quiet moments. And I recall sitting on my sofa in the lounge and practising my yodelling techniques. Again, I rationalised this as I grew telling myself all kids like to practise yodelling.
I recently inquired about this to my mom/sister, and they instantly recall me doing this, including the yodelling. They both thought it was just an odd personality quirk of mine, as I did. It’s funny how the mind tries to rationalise seemingly strange habits.
(It’s also funny how yodelling is heavily featured in early country/bluegrass music. Also interesting to note that ‘J’ grew up in a Southern state during the 40s/50s.)
My parents never wrote down, or took much notice of me doing this, probably because it was an almost daily habit of mine. Plus this was pre-Google days. They would never have found out when I was young what on Earth I was singing. I’ve been trawling home videos and digitalising them to see if I can come across any of this singing, but so far have not found it recorded. I did, however, find video evidence of another habit I did as a child (again, very young, I was two in the video). The habit was basically whenever we were out as a family walking for any length of time, I would sometimes start marching like a little soldier. Again, I recall going into a bit of a trance whilst doing this. One time when we were out, I was marching off in the opposite direction of where we were supposed to be going and did not notice my family were calling me as. Pretty sure I have a photo of me doing this.
This relates to another trance like incident that occurred, again around the same age (two years). I cannot recall the incident fully, but more or less remember it since it is something that I would lie in bed thinking about for years after, often with a sense of shame. I recall that we were in town as a family. The next moment I recall is my family calling for me over and over. I vaguely recall ‘coming to’ and realising that I was holding a strange man’s hand, and my family were further up the road. That strange man was embarrassed, obviously, that this little girl had grabbed his hand and walked off with him. My recall of how he looked was that he was probably in his thirties, had a short light brown hair (buzzed short), he was lean, muscled and possibly had tattoos.
My mom told me that I had mistaken this man for my father, and thought I was walking with my dad. This seemed reasonable enough. However, when I look back now I realise that this man looked nothing like my father. I do not remember even grabbing his hand. When I was very young, I was a very cautious, shy child and wary of strangers. This grabbing a strangers hand was totally out of character for me.
I’ve reflected about this recently, and wondered if the man looked similar to my previous self, and perhaps some part of me had recognised ‘myself’ and grabbed a hold of ‘me’. All I can say is that from my recollection of him is that he fits the description of my previous self more than he does my father.
A few more childhood cues, apart from the aforementioned phobia of dysentery/illness -
- Being in highly humid places (e.g glass tropical houses in zoos/botanical gardens) bought to me feelings of intense nostalgia. The main feeling was that I was in an heightened state of alertness. This includes summer time in England when it is warm and rains, but more so in high humidity and heat of tropical greenhouses. I still get those feelings to this day.
- I always wanted a toy gun growing up, but was never allowed one. My cousins would play with pellet guns and BB guns, and I would leave the room when they started playing with them out of fear. Yet still wanted a toy gun myself. There was a simultaneous repulsion/fascination. Also recall that as kids we used to visit my nan every weekend. We kids would mess up my uncle’s bedroom, play on his games console, play with his Star Wars figures. My uncle liked scuba diving, and he had a divers knife on his nightstand that I used to stare at, be very fascinated with, but never dared to touch. Again it was that fascination/repulsion feeling.
- Again that repulsion/fascination feeling extended to other things that in hindsight I can relate to my previous self. I enjoyed running as a young kid, and was pretty fast. I did not compete with girls when I was younger, but against the boys in my class. I loved to run, but there was a curious pain behind that. I’ve seen recently that my previous self used to run track in a few newspaper clippings I found that reference his teenage years. I’m pretty sure that I avoided taking my love of running seriously because it reminded me of my previous life.
Again, this extended to my feelings towards the military. I was fascinated and repulsed by it.
Growing up, I never probed myself too deeply about that, and kept it to one side. Perhaps innately I knew there were hard feelings there that I did not want to access as a young kid. I was always fascinated by the US Army, and not the British. But there was always a feeling in the back of my head that I did not want to ‘go back’ into that.
In fact I can see a pattern that when something gave me that repulsion/fascination feeling when I was growing up, it’s usually related, in some form or other, to an aspect of my previous self. This includes the repression of my gender, which was, in part, suppressed along with the memories of my previous self. The two sort of went hand in hand.
- I had an extreme fear of lightening and thunder growing up. I know this is very common amongst kids, and on its own it stands for nothing. But I do recall how this fear persisted up until I was in my twenties (and still puts me on edge). When it thundered my favourite thing to do was to get somewhere sheltered, away from the windows and roll into a ball. I recall once as a kid we were out in a field and it started to rain/thunder, we were with other family members and kids my own age. I became hysterical and would not shut up till my mom took me to the car.
- This is related to the dysentery/illness phobia. As a kid, I hated pigs (still dislike them). I hated the smell of them, they repulsed me. Watching home videos recently I came across two year old me pleading to my parents repeatedly I wanted to leave (we were at a kiddy farm looking at animals), my dad focused the camera on the piglet in front and lo and behold, it was signposted 'Vietnamese spotted pig'. Recently I read something interesting. POWs in South Vietnam often were around pigs that belonged to the camp cadre. (This is quite graphic, so If you are squeamish, don’t read). The pigs would wander around camp, and during bouts of dysentery the pigs would come ‘clean’ the POWs rear end, effectively eating the refuse. Could this possibly be linked to my intense dislike of pigs? Perhaps—or maybe it’s just the intense smell that triggers my dislike.
- I recall as a child I’d have a recurrent thoughts/fantasies whilst waking up about a red retro looking car. When I started to recall my past self, one of the things that popped up was his love of cars. In particular, I saw him with a red and white car that he had when he was younger. It’s the same car I saw him driving off on his wedding day. Curiously, in this life, I chose a car that was red/burgundy and retro for my own wedding day.
- For my third birthday, I requested a Captain Scarlett figure, and red diecast car from the series. The figure and the car were favourite childhood toys of mine. I was quite obsessed with this show when I was a kid, which they replayed on tv during the 90's. Captain Scarlett in my eyes was awesome -- he was an officer who could fly planes, cars, jet-packs, be killed over and over in espionage type work. Again, not typical for a two-three year old girl to be into.
I find this all very fascinating and I can relate as memories, song lyrics and melodies from the past as a black, bluesman returned to me in this lifetime and all of this has been published as my book "Go Back Jack" this year. Please keep records of your dreams and impressions. You may want to write your own story in future.
Part Twelve (Putting The Pieces Together)
Sometime after contacting J’s eldest son, I was suffering with pretty bad insomnia. Couldn’t get into a deep sleep, probably not helped by the fact I was heavily pregnant at that time. I also very much had J’s family on my mind, stuck with the conundrum of what to do next. Or whether doing anything at all was right. I felt pretty guilty for reaching out at all.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a state similar to an out-of-body experience, sorta aware of my bedroom without my eyes open. I became aware that ‘someone’ was standing in the corner of the room. That someone was my brother. Not my brother now (I do not have a brother), but J’s brother. I could not see him clearly, there was just a vague outline of him. But the feeling was very clear. I could feel his particular personality. In fact he was joking with me, sorta saying, God look at you now, you’re a girl! And pregnant! I had the impression of him laughing, not with malice, but just joking at the situation. It was how we used to joke.
So I was feeling pretty low about the situation I was in. But J’s brother left me with two messages. The first message was just to relax, stop taking everything so seriously ‘down here’. Easy enough for him to say, but he’s probably right.
The second message was that I just needed to put the puzzle pieces together.
That was pretty much it.
I woke up from that dream, and was left with a feeling of his love, our bond. It was a nice feeling. I had the feeling that J and his brother didn’t always see eye to eye, but that they were very close despite that. Half of the time it was just horsing around, boys being boys. And to feel that those bonds go beyond the grave, even into new bodies, new lives is incredible. There’s a part of us that stays in touch.
It was that little bit of reassurance I needed that I wasn’t doing something wrong. It wasn’t an instant answer, but something that stuck in the back of my mind. Without that reassurance, there’s a very real possibility I would have thrown in the towel. I did not want to harass or burden the family. That was the last thing I wanted.
A couple of months after giving birth, I got the strong urge to start compiling all the memories I had thus far into a document. I had the feeling that I had to prepare this document in a very sensitive way, and take most of the personal feelings out of it. I presented the ‘images’ in a chronological order, as they occurred to me. Almost like a witness report. I wrote the document from a third person perspective, not first person. I did not even assume that the person I was referring to was ‘J’. I put forward my evidence as to why I thought the document referred to ‘J’, just as I have here, with dreams, and my findings from meditations that led me to him.
As Jenny Cockell suggested, I put some memories here I had of the family, things that only the family members would know.
I think the only way I could get my head round writing this was to assume that I was not going to send this document to the family, but just compiling ‘just in case’. If I had thought of actually sending it, I think I would never have wrote it.
I felt an intense pull to contact the family again.
In November (25 November 2017), I was sitting writing in my journal about all this. I was reflecting about J’s brother and writing down something that had come to me in meditation. It was a brief flash of him, and the feeling that at the end of his life he had suffered an illness. I had seen an obituary for him some where on the internet, so I knew already he died pretty young (2004 – he was in his fifties). But the obituary did not state how he had passed away, just that he had been with family, and living in Hawaii.
In my meditation, I had seen him sitting in a wheelchair, bald, and weakened. I had the impression the illness was cancer, somewhere in his back. I thought it could have been colon or bowel, but wasn’t sure.
Then, I sat at my desk a while, reflecting. I was again reflecting whether I should contact J’s son once more, just to see if he was now available to chat.
I had not spoke to him since August and had no clue if we’d ever establish a proper conversation.
I wished I had some sort of sign.
I’m sitting there writing my thoughts down at my desk in the kitchen/diner. Above my desk is a cupboard. On the cupboard, between the two handles, I keep a hanging pendulum. I was writing, and from the corner of the eye could see that my pendulum was moving. I mean really moving, swinging from side to side. As if someone had taken their finger and pushed it. It moved in an unnatural way, because it was not banging against my cupboard. I stared at it, wondering.
When it stopped moving, I opened the cupboard doors, then shut them. The pendulum sometimes swings after opening the doors and closing them. But I’d been sitting still, writing in my journal. I had not moved to open the doors. I tried to push the pendulum with my finger, and it moved in a jittery way, banging against the door. It was not moving that way. I tried moving my desk, shaking it. The pendulum did not swing, just jolted a bit forward. I tried looking for a breeze. The windows of the kitchen were closed. My house does not suffer from draughts. We don’t even have opening windows in the front room to create a through flow.
My kitchen has a kitchen bar/island and my husband was standing there at the time, preparing some food. My desk is in in the corner, and he was facing my desk.
So I asked him, did you see that? Did you see that moving? He said yes, he said, I thought you moved it – but then he too realised I had just been sitting there writing and not moved during the whole time. He said that his mind had tried to ignore it, rationalise that it hadn’t happened.
Even I tried to rationalise. I tried to tell myself I must have stood, opened the doors and sat down and not realised. Surely? But I hadn’t.
The incident stuck with me. I’d been thinking about J’s brother at the time, and asking for a sign. Well, there’s my sign. It wasn’t the first time these things would happen about J’s brother. These things continue up until now, very strange little happenings, often in times of doubt. My mind always rationalises, and probably will always do that, but deep down there is a feeling of reassurance.
Separate names with a comma.