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Ailish's memories

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Ailish

Administrator Emerita
From the time I was a little girl, I've remembered past lives. It's something that has always stayed with me. My Grandma kept a journal for me, and interestingly enough I've been able to fill in many missing pieces from lives I spoke about as a child. Despite being very Catholic, my grandma never batted an eye when I spoke about other mothers, homes and families. Or about seeing the Light and speaking with spirits. Perhaps she knew something...;)

I've always been very attached to the United States, even though in this life I was born in Vancouver, Canada. Nothing Canadian ever seemed to stick with me! I insisted, "Our leader is called a President!!" In Canada, it's a Prime Minister. When someone tried to teach me the Canadian National Anthem, I came out with a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner (no one had taught me the words). I wanted to shop at Macy's (we don't have Macy's), talked about attending the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (had never been to one). When people would ask me where I'm from...standard response was always California. As a little girl I had an argument with my grandparents - they insisted the capitol of California was Los Angeles. I was adamant, "It's Sacramento!!!!!" They were stunned when they checked. I had no way of knowing that....I wasn't in school yet and I certainly couldn't name any Canadian capitols. I referred to provinces as states. I insisted that Thanksgiving was in November - in the US it is. In Canada it's in October. I was pretty miffed about celebrating at the wrong time! I also became very patriotic on the 4th of July, whereas I wasn't remotely excited on Canada Day. And the flag - oh my. To see that American flag blowing in the wind brought tears to my eyes. It still does. I feel like I am home when I see it. :)
 
Ailish's Memories

In my life as Jessica, I had no idea what happened. One moment I was walking down the street holding my mother's hand.

I let go because I saw a friend across the street. I waved, stepped towards the street, and then there was just excruciating pain. I didn't know at that point that I had been hit by a car because I never saw it coming. I was terrified. I could hear people screaming, hear the activity going on around me, but I couldn't see anything at all.

I remember my mother crying and talking to me. I remember her touching me. I desperately wanted to see her, but I couldn't. My eyes felt like someone had dumped mud into them. I couldn't move, or speak, and I was so scared.

When the regressionist asked me to step back and become an observer, I saw the car, the people around it and in the middle of it all I saw the little girl, crumpled like a broken doll in the street, covered in blood, her mother holding her, also covered in blood.

I realized at that point that the reason the little girl could not see was that her eyes were filled with blood, as her head had sustained most of the injuries, and her face was badly damaged.

It was a horrible thing to witness, but for me, seeing the blood was like reaching a clear understanding of what had happened. Since then, I have been able to let the pain and confusion go, but I still hate crossing busy streets ;)

Ailish
 
1640's Ireland and Italy during WWI

I'd have to say that one of my favorite lives was the life I lived in Ireland as Sarah, during the 1640's. I lived with my parents & my brother. It's the simple, sweet memories make me miss this life...like walking barefoot in the grass after the rain on a summer's day, picking wildflowers in the fields to decorate the old wooden table in the tiny cottage, curling up in front of the warm fire in my mother's lap while she sang songs to us, trying to sit still while she brushed my hair and made me pretty for church on Sundays, working together in the garden, preparing meals together in the tiny kitchen, visiting neighbours and playing for endless hours by a beautiful river...these are just some of the memories that make this one of my favourite lives.

I also miss my life in Italy when my name was Nicola -- I had a close knit family and a lovely home with a great childhood. I was especially close with my sister Lera, whom I shared a room with. She was five years older than I was. My brother Luca was 3 years older, but never minded me tagging along to climb trees with him and his buddies, even if I was a pest. :D

Ailish

This post and discussion is continued in the thread Favorite past lives
 
Remembering my mothers


When I was exploring Jessica's life in the 1950's, I had some beautiful memories of my mother, Corinne. She was a fun-loving woman who liked to dance in the kitchen, made hanging the laundry outdoors an adventure, and loved to go to the beach. She liked to paint and play the piano, and she would often bring "goodies" into my playhouse and have tea parties with me. She very much inspired me to "seize the moment". I do remember my father in that life -- but I have clearer, more vibrant memories of my mother.


As Sarah in the 1600's, I have mainly memories of my 'mam', brother and uncle. My father worked away from home, so memories of him are limited and usually revolve around mealtimes. Mam was a very "outdoorsy' woman, who wasn't as conservative as everyone else in those times. She often let me get away with running bare-headed in the sunshine (I hated my hat). We often made chains of flowers and took long walks through the woods. We visited neighbours, taking food to those who needed help. We had a great relationship until her death.


As Anyana, I was raised by my Aunt Saya. She was soft-spoken, kind and oh-so-gentle. She taught me the things I needed to know about everyday living -- cooking, spinning, harvesting. I considered her to be a mother. My real mother lived there as well, but I was not raised by her. She was an important and knowledgeable woman -- I learned from her as well, but she taught me the things that no one else could. I loved Saya and looked up to her -- but sadly, she could not compare to my real mother in my eyes...and she knew that. I could see it in her eyes every time I looked at her. When our settlement was destroyed, Saya was killed. My mother rescued me and we escaped with some others, but I acted out with her for not saving Saya. I think I had much guilt over these two mothers -- I loved them both, but I did not want to choose between them.


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Remembering Mother
 
Nicoletta's first dance with a boy


When I was living as Nicola, one of my favorite things to do was to tease my sister (older by five years) about boys. We shared a room -- and I thought it was completely disgusting when she would sneak out of the window to meet a boy. I teased her mercilessly, I am afraid. :tongue: Yes, I was a pest.


I remember very clearly her 17th birthday party held at my grandparents' home -- it was an all night event with dancing, and plenty of delicious food. She had helped me to dress for the occasion -- and I was proud and feeling very grown-up.


It turned out to be the place I had my first "official" dance with a boy -- with all of the relatives looking on. I remember blushing almost scarlet and giggling like crazy. My father, mother and grandparents were standing off to the side pointing and smiling. I was mortified by all of the attention. I looked for my sister and saw her in in the middle of a crowd of boys -- watching me. She caught my eye and gave me our special "sister sign".


That night in our room, my sister was the one teasing me... :D


Ailish


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Funny Memories
 
Sarah Roberts, Kilkenny Ireland - 1600's

I have memories of being a young girl in Kilkenny, Ireland in the 1600's. My name was Sarah Roberts. I have very vivid memories of running through a forest and going into hiding -- with my mother.

A group of men came to the cottage where we were hiding -- among them were my father and brother. They had accused my mother, Susannah, of witchcraft.

They took her from the cottage directly to the river. There was no "trial" ~ but they performed what is called a "floating test" on her. I watched from the riverbank -- as my father held me back, whispering to me "See what happens to women who don't obey, Sarah."

I am lucky -- in that many of my memories have been validated by a dear friend of mine -- who remembers being Susannah. ;)

Ailish

This post and discussion is continued in the thread The Burning Times
 
Northern Italy - a shared life


Hi Everyone,


Deborah and I promised to share a little bit about our recent past life discoveries. We’re still working hard and documenting a lot of our shared experiences – which we’ve realized will be quite an extensive, on-going thing! ;)


As we mentioned in the California Adventure Thread -- the most recent life we shared together – was in Northern Italy. You may have read Deborah’s threads about Italy – and the trip she took there this past summer.


The odd thing – is neither of us made the connection regarding this life – although we’d both read each other’s memories on the forum, it wasn’t until that last day together -- when we actually sat down to do some past life work – and have a discussion that we started to realize…


Deborah asked me about my Italy life – and the excitement in her voice when she said “I had a sister in Italy!” made me look at her twice before I could speak. The conversation was flying back and forth as we were quizzing, comparing and questioning. The description of the bedroom we shared – down to which way the windows opened – the house, the vineyard – the barn, Mamma’s garden on the side of the house, stone wall, and the big olive tree in the front yard – everything matched.


Since I’ve returned home from our visit – we’ve been exchanging e-mails with our journal entries – sharing our memories, documenting and researching.


We’ve found so many validations – from words spoken in Italian – to Christmas, Valeria’s 17th birthday celebration and various other traditions. It’s been – absolutely fascinating.


The first thing that caught our attention was – a name. I called my sister Lera. Deborah’s name was Valeria. My sister was 5 years older – hers was five years younger. We both knew Valeria was the oldest. We both had a brother and lived on a vineyard. She remembers a photo of an Uncle on our mantle – who went to war. I had described a young, fun-loving Uncle – Papa’s brother – who used to make faces at me so I’d laugh in church.


We’ll share a few snippets here…


Deborah has memories of hiding a wounded German soldier in the family barn – underneath the floorboards.


I have memories of my sister sneaking out our bedroom to meet a boy after everyone had gone to bed. The following entries are from my journal:


I am 11 years old. I am in bed, staring at the light on the wall. I hear my sister, Lera stir and look over at her. She is sitting, fully dressed on the edge of her bed putting on her shoes. I know where she is going. To meet that boy again. I sit up and tell her not to go. Papa will be so angry if he catches her. She sits on my bed, touches my cheek and tells me not to worry about her – she tells me she loves him and will marry him when she is eighteen. I am torn. I adore my sister and want her to be happy…but it is not right to go against Papa. She tells me that one day I will understand and she kisses my forehead. I watch as she moves to the window and climbs out. I know the soldier has put a ladder from the barn there. He always does. I wait a moment and go to the window – I watch as he kisses her, takes her hand and they run across the yard. I feel like I am losing my sister and I feel dislike for this boy/man of hers.


Valeria lost her entire family in an air raid in WWI. I didn’t know how I died exactly – but this was my description from my journal:


There is noise and confusion. Loud claps of noise like thunder. Flying objects. Something hits me, knocks me down. I hear Papa calling my name. There is smoke. I cannot see him. I am coughing. I see flames. I feel hot – burning – my dress is on fire. Where is Mamma? Papa is calling her name “Maria!” He’s calling for Luca and for me again “Nicoletta!” I hit at the flames, but they spread, my hands are burned…the skin is bubbled. I can’t move under the rocks. My legs are trapped. It’s hot. My head is on fire – my hair. I smell it. Smell the flesh. I’m scared, so scared.


In this life -- I have a terrible feeling of dread when I hear planes flying overhead. My stomach clenches and I hold my breath until they pass – it’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl. I remember being certain someone would drop a bomb on me. I didn’t grow out of that fear until I was over ten years old – but I still hate planes.


I also never liked the sound of thunder. To me, it sounded like bombs dropping – flashes of lightning on a dusky skyline looked like explosions in the distance. I can appreciate the beauty of a storm now – but occasionally we get some major storms where I live – and the sheet lightning reminds me again – of bombs.


For some reason – I never connected either of those things -- to Nicoletta’s life.
 
Continued from above post............


My sister was the only family member to survive the attack -- she didn’t come to town with us that day. Deborah has memories – of hearing the sirens – and witnessing the raid from a “vista point” on our family’s property.


The following is from my journal, and it is the last memory of my sister:


My sister stands glaring defiantly at Papa, refusing to dress, refusing to come with us. Mamma keeps telling him to leave her be, and pretty soon all three of them are arguing.


Luca leaves the house. Lera runs upstairs and I hear a door slam. Papa is mad again. Mamma’s looking worn out. I go up the stairs and open our bedroom door. I am mad at her – but I am sadder when I see her crying again.



Lera is sitting on her bed by the window. The window is wide open despite the chill in the air. I walk over and close it, then sit on the bed.



I ask her to come. It’s important to Papa. She doesn’t speak, just shakes her head and turns away from me. I try all of my tricks to get her to come, but she just becomes angry and upset and pushes me away from her. I move closer to her and she pushes me away really hard saying “non me par larra” (?) and something about “Pachuh”(?) and “romperruh” (?)



I feel tears in my eyes. I yell at her that she is selfish and run down the stairs, my feet pounding hard on each step. I hear her call “Nicoletta,” but I don’t care.



I stop at the kitchen table and put ********* there. Let her find it. I don’t care. I wipe at my tears.



I walk out the door and over to Luca, Mamma and Papa. I take Papa’s hand as we walk. I feel sorry for him. He keeps looking back at the house as we leave. I don’t look back.



I didn’t say what it was that I left on the table – or the significance of it. Deborah and I are very cautious in our approach -– not to give away something to each other that could prove to be another great validation.


Aili :)


This post and discussion continued in the thread Sisters - A Shared Life in Italy
 
Anabaptist Child in Germany - 1550's


I have only shared with the innermost details of this life with one other person. It is interesting to note — that I recognize several people from that lifetime in my present one – and the revelations were somewhat startling -- at least to me! ;)


I will share a few memories and validations, from what I believe are Anabaptist times.


Quotes from my journal are in italics throughout:


First I found myself back in that little wooden house in Germany. I was small -- perhaps 5 years old and I was sitting in the corner. I was in someone's lap. The woman who held me was pregnant -- I could feel the bulge of her stomach, and had to sit sideways to avoid the bump. I knew -- I must be quiet. The old man was speaking and there was silence in the house. There were several families that lived there -- in the same house -- and it was mainly comprised of women and children. The older man seemed to be in charge of the house and younger men who came and went at all hours. All of the men had a lot of facial hair -- long beards, hats and very simple clothes. The women and children were also dressed simply -- all had head coverings and dark clothing.

"The men came in dark Anabaptist clothes and beards. Their wives wearing black head coverings." p. 289
"The Anabaptists practiced wearing loose-fitting, solid-colored clothes according to the manner of the land. Men usually wore knee pants tied around the waist with a sash. Women and girls, even little girls, wore head coverings." p.229-230
Then we were running through the forest. The woman was holding my hand. There were several other people there running with us. The woman stopped and put her hands on her pregnant stomach. Someone said "Johanna." She was panting -- and seemed to be in pain. She sat on the ground. I was holding onto the dress on her back -- it was gripped in my hand. It was dark but there were flames of light in the trees and voices. Hands were grabbing me.


Now, I naturally assumed my mother’s name was Johanna – even though it didn't really "feel" right. When I wrote about her in my journal -- I used "Johanna (if that was her name)" In fact, she was calling out for my father, who had already been killed months before. His name was “Johann.” Later on -- I found out her name was actually Ilsa.


A tiny little wooden box. Just my parents together in the house. My mother is making clothes for the baby brother. My father is giving that baby a bath in the wooden tub. All of him is blue. I don't understand. I am confused. My father asks me to wash the baby's feet. The water is cold -- I pull my hand back. My mother says "Johann," and has tears steaming from her eyes. She is sewing and sewing and not looking at my father. The "Will of God" echoes in my ears.


My mother and I ended up – in some sort of jail. She was extremely pregnant, without a husband, and trying to keep me – her five-year-old, safe from the men who had killed her husband – simply for his religious beliefs.


We were in a dark place. There was some sort of straw on the floor. Men were coming in and taking people out. The woman picked me up and was carrying me out. The sunlight hurt my eyes. There were people gathered all around. A wooden block was in the middle of them. They took me from the woman's arms -- she was screaming. Two men were holding her. The were speaking about God. She was shaking her head and screaming, still holding her stomach -- reaching one hand out in front of her.


A man was holding me around the middle, my left arm pinned under him. Another man put my right hand on the wooden block. A third man was standing above -- he had an axe of sorts -- and he swung it down, cutting off the fingertips of my right hand.



I found validation in that memory:

Deidrich von Schonberg had many Anabaptists beheaded, drowned and killed in other ways at Alzey. His men searched for them, dragging them from houses and leading them like sheep to slaughter in the city square. Of the believers not one recanted. They went joyfully to their deaths. While some were being drowned and beheaded the rest sang while they waited their turn. A few of them who they did not want to kill right away they tortured by chopping off their fingers, by burning crosses into their foreheads and through many other evil means. -- p. 204
My death, also follows the above pattern – it came soon after the incident with the fingers, although I am not too certain about the passage of time, it couldn’t have been that long.


Then we were outside at night. Men with torches were all around. Again -- they took me from my mother's arms. The man who was holding me -- was the pitt-faced man I saw before. My mama screamed my name "Christina." They took her and stood her on a platform -- a noose around her neck. She was still pregnant -- her belly was very large now. She had both arms wrapped around her stomach. She was crying. The men put me in the large tub of water. They were holding me under. I couldn't breathe. I felt -- it was a baptism of sorts -- but it went horribly wrong.


My mother is screaming. I am in the water. I am cold. My hand hurts. I cannot breathe. Each time they bring me to the surface I hear her more clearly. She is calling my name. I am choking. They hold me above the water for a few moments and I look her in the eyes. She is cradling her stomach, her arms around her unborn child, singing. I feel my mother's love and as I call her name "Mama", they push me under the water again.



Aili


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Germany in the 1550's
 
Memories of Mamma from WWI Italy


Mamma from Italy. :) She was a woman of small stature, but average weight. Her face was beautiful, but tired looking. She had eyes like mine (Nicoletta's) and a long nose – with very red lips and a smile that was slow to start, but was always soft and sweet.


She had fairly curly brown hair – which she pulled up in a sort of knot while she was working. She spoke softly much of the time – and used her hands a lot when talking – but she could yell really loudly when she wanted to.


My earlier memories of her include a happy, hard-working woman. Many of my later journal entries include Mamma not feeling well. Many times – she is lying in a darkened room, and I am bringing her tea. I have memories of being told not to disturb her – to go and play outside – or to be very quiet because “Mamma is resting.”


I know, that despite whatever plagued her, Mamma still worked diligently in her garden -- and around around the house as much as she was able to. I remember my sister Lera doing a lot of the cooking and cleaning up -- with me helping, of course!


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Remembering Mother
 
Wales in the 800's


Henry Leo Bolduc states the following about children and their past life memories:

"...vivid or recurring dreams of other times or places might indicate contact with a past life. Talking while asleep about other lives — even in a foreign language—is not uncommon.
Persistent daydreaming of other times and places might represent an attempt to understand a past life. Children might act out past-life memories during play. Repetitive themes or role-playing, could be a re-enactment of a past-life experience."
As a little girl, I often played in the backyard collecting leaves and sticks and putting them in my “cloth bag” which I wore tied around my waist. I would make “healing drinks” pouring water into a plastic cup and putting in various leaves, grass and a few twigs for good measure. In my cloth bag was also a rock – a special “amulet” of protection.


I used to go on long “journeys” to find my real mother, through the dark scary forest (the trees dividing our property from the neighbors’ place). Along the way I’d meet up with people who needed my help and people who were trying to get my amulet (usually my brothers hiding in the bushes!)


Once I was old enough to write – I began to record the dreams I had. I have always been a vivid dreamer -- with an excellent memory for detail. I have had several recurring dreams since I was a toddler that definitely have their roots in a past life.


Long before that, my Grandma kept a journal for me. For me personally – it is interesting to see how much of my early “play” coincides with my current memories.


Here are a few snippets from my journal:

I could feel the chill of the night air on my face, although there was no wind...the air was completely still and it was silent. I looked down at my feet and I had bare feet. I was wearing a white dress made out of a light-weight cloth material. Then there were many female voices that picked up a chant. It wasn't words, but *sounds*...it was calming and the fire was mesmerising.
I looked around for the first time noticing that I was in the middle of a group of little girls, all dressed as I was. I saw they had wreaths of flowers in their hair and reached up to make sure I had mine on...I did.



I heard someone call "Anyana" and I looked up and the Priestess was beckoning to me. I got up to her and she wrapped me in her robe, dabbed some sort of earthy-smelling mixture on my forehead and said something that sounded like "Il Falio Kerr Danilow". Then she took my hands and on my left hand she made a small cut that looked like a backwards "S,” but with curlier ends.



Then she gave me something to drink out of a silver mug that had the same symbol on it that my hand now did. She looked me in the eyes and I felt such a sense of peace wash over me.



__________________________________________________



We were preparing for a ceremony. We were in the forest and the Priestess was showing me how to cut the branches she would need without harming the tree. Each branch she cut was inscribed – carved with a special symbol. This was done with the small knife the Priestess carried with her at all times. It was not used for anything but cutting in preparation for ceremonies and rituals. She had a special way of unwrapping and wrapping the knife before and after each use. __________________________________________________



I saw that we were in the cave. There was her cup on the altar. I looked at the symbol on it, then at the one on my hand. I looked back at the altar and noticed other things on the top. The Priestess gave me a little brown pouch with something in it, tied it around my neck and said to keep it on.



Then she was showing me some sticks. There were specific markings on them. She threw them on the ground, and she was talking about the patterns they made. How they fell was important.



_________________________________________________



I was being led into the cave by Saya. There were other people gathered there and it was fairly dark. I saw the Priestess. We all sat down and she said three words (which I can't remember now). We closed our eyes. It was completely silent. I felt a pulsing in my forehead and three colors swirled slowly in front of me - gold, blue and white. Then she started a chant and I opened my eyes.



Several of the "older girls" came forward and lit a small fire on either side of the Priestess. The Priestess was standing behind an altar. It was made of gray stones...three standing parallel, which supported a long smooth stone that was the top of the altar. On the top were various items...a bowl, her chalice, a medium-sized knife, wooden branches, leaves and little bundles of something wrapped in material.



She said a few more words and filled the cup from the water source. She added some of the leaves, and opened the little bundles and put some of the contents on the mug. She started chanting (again - not words, but *sounds*). Then the group joined in the chanting and the water cup was passed from person to person. This was repeated several times.





It's extremely interesting for me to note -- that I have several journal entries from childhood that support various past lives. None of them are spectacular, but rather they are just ordinary memories of everyday life throughout the ages.


Ailish


This post and discussion continued in the thread When Childhood Play Validates Past Lives

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Everyday memories from life to life


I was talking to a friend the other night – and he reminded me that there is comfort in the simple things in life – from walking to work in the morning, to chores on the farm in the evening.


Many people I have spoken with – feel there is nothing “exciting” in sharing their past life memories of regular life. I completely disagree – I think there is beauty to be found in the most simple of memories – a smile between two people, a favorite “spot” in the forest, a family picnic….

"I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex." ~ Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
I am going to share a few moments from a couple different lifetimes – that were taken from my journals. They're simple, and not extremely exciting -- but they highlight everday life -- and they are treasures to me.

From Italy:
Luca is making fun of me. I have fallen from the tree in the yard and scraped my knees and elbows. He says I am a baby. I feel embarrassed and mad. I pick up a rock and throw it at him. I hear Papa call my name “Nicoletta!” and I know I am in trouble now. Papa grabs me by the arm – and takes me to the barn where the bad kids go. Luca was grinning. I am angry – it was his fault I fell in the first place. I am also scared because I don’t like spankings. But – Papa doesn’t spank me. He just takes me on his lap and tells me that rocks hurt and we must never throw them – even at naughty brothers. Then he tells me to go inside and help Mamma. I am relieved as I scurry towards the house.


From Wales:


It was getting dark and I was inside with Saya. She was making me spin. I hated it. Saya was distracted and a little short-tempered with me. I was doing a clumsy job. My hands did not want to spin. I wanted to be outside. Everything outside was fresh and clean, the smells of the forest upon the air, the scent of rain, the night sky -- it called to me. I was relieved and excited when Sohaila came to take me that evening. I flew across the room and into her arms, barely stopping long enough to grab my cloak. Saya did not approve. I could tell by the look on her face. She was angry and wanted me to stay in and do a proper job. Saya and Sohaila had words. I knew Saya's protests wouldn't matter...Sohaila could take me whenever she wanted to. I felt so happy that I was going to be freed from that dull chore that I disliked so much. I didn't even glance at Saya as I left -- I was angry with her for being "snippy" with me, and for her trying to stop me from going with Sohaila. The Priestess smiled down at me and I knew she understood what I was thinking. I didn't need to say the words aloud. I don't think she liked spinning either.


From Russia:


There is silence in the studio except the teacher counting as I stand at the barre. The sound of my slippers sliding across the floor as my teacher calls out corrections, lifting my leg, turning out my foot. My muscles are sore, my feet bruised and swollen – but I push through the pain. I know I must do better – be better, if I want to audition for the school next year. The pain is welcome – it is my dream.


From Kilkenny:


Mam was sitting on her special rock by the river. I was playing with a stick and throwing rocks into the water. Uncle Thomas was there and he was talking with Mam and she was laughing. I kept calling "Mammy! Look at me! Look!" and she'd glance my way and smile, then turn back to Uncle Thomas. I remember pestering him to chase me. He'd catch me in his arms and swing me around and around. I could feel the wind in my hair, and I'd throw back my head and giggle. I loved to feel like I was flying.


From Boston:


I was was playing at Victoria's house. We were in her front yard scooping up leaves and burying ourselves under them. Victoria took off her coat and told me to take off mine. I gave it to her and she draped them over some small shrubs in front of the house to make a little tent. We crawled into our tent and we were laughing because we thought no one could see us. Then I heard Daddy calling me, so I poked my head out. He was standing at the end of the front walk. He said it was time to go home now, so I ran down to him. He picked me up and swung me around. I ran back to get my coat and Daddy helped me put it on.
This post and discussion is continued in the thread Everyday Memories
 
An Italian Christmas


In keeping with the holiday season, I am adding one of the memories I have of our Italian Christmas:


I am small perhaps 6. I am excited because it is Christmas season and there are so many good foods – especially sweets. Lera helps me hang my stocking on the end of the bed, but changes her mind and gives me one of hers – it’s bigger.


She does the same on her own bed and tells me “Go to sleep La Befana is coming to fill our stockings with goodies.”



I jump onto my bed and scramble under the patchwork quilt. It’s cold in there! I swish my legs and feet around to warm up the bed and Lera laughs at me. That makes me giggle.



Papa and Mamma come in to kiss us, and Papa laughs when he sees Lera’s stocking on my bed. I close my eyes as Papa kisses my forehead and then Mamma reminds us to say our prayers. I jump out of bed to kneel by Lera at her bed. She is saying words – but not praying – I can tell. She is smiling too much to be praying.



This post and discussion continued in the thread Sisters - A Shared Life in Italy
 
Holland in the 1400’s


Love – what a great topic! There is such a beautiful innocence in the memory of one’s first love. It’s something most people I know remember in their current lives with great clarity – so I can definitely understand how that feeling would be remembered from other lifetimes as well. ;)

ChrisR said:
I was wondering how many of you have experienced past-life memories of being young, and falling in love for the first time?
I had some wonderful memories from a meditation I did not too long ago about a lifetime in Holland in the 1400’s. Dmitri was a student of my father’s friend. He was basically “boarding” with us from the time I was 8 years old. I adored him right from the start. He treated me like the child I was at first – and teased me mercilessly about being exactly like his little sister back home. That was definitely not what I wanted to hear at the time. :tongue: I’m not certain when he stopped seeing me as a child – but I think the following moment was important:

I am 13 years old. I am so very excited to be at a banquet with Dmitri and my father. I feel very grown up. There are several long wooden tables heaped with food. It is warm inside, but I can feel a slight breeze – the shutters in the windows are open. I am absolutely dying to take off the hot headpiece and veil. I can feel sweat trickle down the back of my neck.
Someone is playing a flute (?) There is a roasted pig – or boar (?) and what I think is some sort of wild goose (also roasted). They are both charred black. People are pulling pieces off with their hands. There is bread on the tables and cheese. Some sort of dessert (like a soft cookie with syrup – or molasses) is stacked. I am too excited to eat.


My father and Dmitri are speaking with several other men. I am watching Dmitri gesturing to the men. He is much more exuberant and expressive than anyone I know. People around here are solemn.


I hear my name “Annika,” and I turn to see that fat old Geert coming towards me. I heard my father tell his friend Henryk (?) that Geert wanted my father to make a match. I don’t want to marry that man, even if he’s wealthy. I say hello and excuse myself before he gets any ideas.


I wander out of doors. I can still hear the music faintly. The cool air feels lovely. The torches outside of the hall that are stuck in the earth – cast an eerie light and shadows in the distance. Someone calls my name “Annika,” and I turn to see Dmitri. He says my father is worried that I have wandered off – and of course it’s not proper. I tell him I was avoiding Geert. Dmitri’s eyes are sparkling and he laughs – a deep laugh straight from the stomach. He has a funny look on his face that makes my cheeks burn. I bow my head and look at the ground and then I feel him take my hand and -- kiss it. I look at him again – my heart pounding. We just stare at each other for a moment – and then I hear my father’s voice – and the moment is gone. He drops my hand. We must both look awfully guilty -- I feel a sort of shame, yet euphoria at the same time.
Aili :)


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Memories of your "first love"
 
The baby cradle


Here's another "everyday memory" -- it's the simplicity of the moment -- that makes it precious to me:

Dmitri has made a cradle – on rockers – for our baby. It is a plain wood – but he has hand painted it – with little flowers, vines with leaves along the sides. It is absolutely beautiful. We have put it at the end of our bed. There are tiny little blankets and white linen dresses/nightgowns hung over the side – inside our tiny daughter sleeps. Dmitri and I lay at the end of the bed, my head on his shoulder as we watch her little chest rise and fall. Every so often Dmitri will reach out and stroke her head or hold up her little hands and rub them gently between his fingers. She has her Daddy’s hands -- this amazes Dmitri, who keeps commenting on it.
Aili :)


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Everyday Memories
 
Losing a child


The phrase I heard from Deborah “From Grief to Grace” really struck a chord deep within. Grief is such a personal experience – one that no two people experience in the same way. Some people grieve in private – some prefer to be surrounded by people. Some people experience the grief in stages – as presented by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Some people appear stoic and reserved in their acceptance – while others openly weep with a pain only they can know.


Nathali's recent post in her thread Memories of the Alhambra about Ibrahim's mother, the grief over the loss of her son -- and how she reached out to the other boy to offer him comfort -- started me thinking more about past lives...


I’ve discussed how seeing my own death – has never been an issue for me – there are “good deaths” and “bad deaths” and I accept them both for what they are – a transition into another life, a new adventure – a part of the journey of my soul.


Recently, I had a different kind of experience in a meditation. This time – I was not the one leaving for the next adventure – I was the one left behind to deal with the loss. Certainly, in other lifetimes I’d lost people close to me – but this time it was different – this time, I’d lost my child.


I was about 14 when my daughter was born (Quite an acceptable age in the 1400’s). I was married to a wonderful man – the love of my life. This beautiful child, Elena, – was our sunshine. My husband Dmitri was a painter – and he was different than many men in that day – he saw beauty in everything. Our time together – was simply joyful. So when Elena came to us -- it was an amazing blessing.

I wake up and reach for Dmitri, but he is not there. I sit up and look, but I don’t see him. “Dmitri?” I call for him. I wander down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dmitri is sitting at the table, Elena cradled in his arms. He smiles when he sees me. He says “Look how she can hold her head, Annika.”
When she was between 8-9 months old – our little Elena died:

I am pacing the floor, back and forth, holding the baby. She’s not eating. She looks so tiny and thin. Her breathing is labored – each breath a wheezy gasping sound. She is so pale and she doesn’t respond to my voice as I chatter to her. There are two bright red spots on her cheeks, yet she feels clammy and cool. Dmitri enters and kneels beside us. He touches our daughter and speaks softly to her. Elena struggles to open her eyes. I can feel her chest rattling with every breath. Elena lets out a weak, raspy cry no louder than a whisper.
I felt utterly lost and filled with guilt. I felt – there was something I should have done as Elena’s mother to save her – to protect her. In those times – babies died all of the time; it was a common occurrence. I still held on to the guilt – the pain of losing this perfect little girl. I felt so – empty. I tried – to turn away from the people who loved me – I wanted to crawl up in myself and never come out. Dmitri would not allow it – despite the fact that he was also grieving, he understood that for Elena – there was more to come. Death is not final.


He also knew that by holding on to the feelings of loss – instead of concentrating on the beauty and gift that was Elena’s life – I was actually keeping myself in a place of grief – instead of moving through the process into healing. (Did I mention he was a very wise man?)


I’ve remembered bits and pieces of the funeral:

“The rain is falling as they put my baby in the ground. I have a heavy heart – my mind keeps echoing “what did I do wrong?” I can smell the damp, fresh earth. The wet grass. I can feel Dmitri standing beside me, his hand on my elbow. I feel numb. People pass by, offering condolences. Different words from different people. Phrases like “will of God,” “blessed with other children,” “walks with God,” pass by my ears. Then it is just me and Dmitri – and the men with shovels. They turn their backs – giving us a final moment. Dmitri takes two rocks from his pocket – each have something painted on them – a circle with a dot in the middle. Then he tells me – the circle represents our union – whole and infinite – and the dot is Elena. A part of her – will always remain cradled within us. We step towards the grave – and throw the rocks on either side of the wooden box. I stare at the small box and I cannot hold back the tears. Dmitri takes me in his arms. He says “Annichka, Annichka, she’s not in there. Our Elena – is already flying.”
Mainly – I remembered my husband’s words to me as I looked into the grave at that tiny wooden box “…she’s not in there. Our Elena – is already flying.” Dmitri knew then – that our Elena was already on her way to a new journey. The knowledge he shared with me – that death is simply another state of being – helped me to understand that Elena needed to go. She would always be our daughter – and always be with us, yet she had – other things to accomplish. Instead of turning away from each other – Elena’s death brought us closer than ever.


Eventually – we found our joy again in learning to live each moment of life. From grief to grace………… ;)


Aili


This post and discussion continued in the thread Moving Through Grief
 
Madeleine loses her Maman - a child's grief


I thought I’d share a different kind of grief…from the point of view of a child losing her only parent. These are probably some of my more difficult memories to share – and even writing about it makes my heart ache and tears well up in my eyes.


Let me explain firstly, that Madeleine was raised primarily by her Maman, and her mother’s friends/co-workers who lived in the house and shared accommodations with them. To Madeleine – Maman “sparkled,” and she made life exciting and fun. Maddie had already lost everyone dear to her – including her homeland when they moved to the Southern US. Every familiar thing was gone, so the loss of her Maman was magnified by being in a foreign country surrounded by strangers. The only person to reach out to Maddie was Cora, her grandmother’s black housekeeper. Cora’s whole family took to Maddie – and she was best friends with Cora’s granddaughter, Charlie.


From my journal:

Maman is in her bed – shaking and sweating. I am sitting in a chair next to her, a cloth in my hand, wiping her forehead. I am humming a song, stroking her hair. I rinse out the cloth in a basin, fold it and place it on her head. I take her hand, tracing little circles on it. Maman takes a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes open – they look large, round and surprised. She says my name, “Madeleine,” and reaches out an arm in front of her. I tell her “I’m here Maman.” I climb on the bed with her. I kiss her cheek. She is gasping for air – each sound a horrible wheezing. I feel a terrible fear clutching at me as Maman struggles to breathe – and to speak. She is saying something – and I lean closer to hear. Something is wrong -- her body is jerking. I feel panic fluttering in my chest – start to run for the door, change my mind and run back to her. I wrap my arms around her; bury my face in between her hair and her neck. I am telling her I love her. I feel her arms around me – hear her whispering words – “Ma belle enfant.” Tears are falling from my eyes. I cannot help it – I start sobbing, saying “Maman, Maman,” over and over again. Fear is making my heart pound. Then her arms are falling from me – her body relaxing. “Maman,” I cry, trying to shake her. I am telling her to “Wake up! Wake up!!” Her eyes are open, but they are focused upwards – on the ceiling. A terrible stabbing pain hits my stomach area – moving up through my heart. I feel the stillness in the room. Tears – flow from my eyes and I curl up next to Maman, my head on her chest. No heartbeat…no breath teasing my hair. Just silence and tears as I hold my Maman. I feel crushing sorrow. I can’t hold it inside – I can’t be quiet as I wail in grief. Moments later Cora is pulling me into her arms, trying to pull me away from Maman. I resist, fighting her, unwilling to leave, unwilling to be comforted. Cora finally succeeds in getting me in her arms. “Hush, hush, baby. Your Momma be wit God an’ his angels in Heaven. No more pain, baby.” I am sobbing, my arms around Cora as she carries me from the room.
I am shivering, sitting on the top step in my nightgown. I hear the old witch go to bed, but I am scared to go down the steps until I know she is asleep. Slowly I creep down, staying close to the wall. I go into the parlor. There I see Maman laid out for her funeral. The grandmother has had her dressed in “respectable” clothes – I know Maman would hate it. It is an ugly dress. I step closer and closer to the plain pine box. Maman, Maman, my heart cries silently. Why did you leave me alone? I stare at my mother’s face – slowly reach out a hand to trace the lines – the brows, the cheeks – for the last time. Tomorrow – they put my mother under the dirt. Suddenly -- I can’t breathe! I am choking, gasping for air. My body is shaking as tears run down my face. I want my Maman – I want her to wake up and hold me. I want to reach out and hold her. But I can’t, I can’t…why did she leave me here in this awful country without her? I can't breathe!
Madeleine only lived about a year and a half after her mother’s death. Despite the profound sense of grief and loss I feel at re-experiencing Maman’s death – I can still remember the feeling of all of the good times – the fun times, and all of the special moments that Maddie got to share with her Maman and for that I feel truly blessed. ;)


Aili :)


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Moving Through Grief
 
Madeleine - Daughter of a French Courtesan


I thought I’d share a different kind of grief…from the point of view of a child losing her only parent. These are probably some of my more difficult memories to share – and even writing about it makes my heart ache and tears well up in my eyes.


Let me explain firstly, that Madeleine was raised primarily by her Maman, and her mother’s friends/co-workers who lived in the house and shared accommodations with them (Madeleine's Maman was a courtesan.) To Madeleine – Maman “sparkled,” and she made life exciting and fun. Madeleine thought her Maman was famous. :D


For some reason (unknown to me!), we had to leave France and move to the US. My real father's mother - who I'd never met - lived there. At first, I thought we were only going for a visit. I didn't know my Maman was dying.


Maddie had already lost everyone dear to her – including her homeland when they moved to the Southern US. Every familiar thing was gone, so the loss of her Maman was magnified by being in a foreign country surrounded by strangers. The only person to reach out to Maddie was Cora, her grandmother’s black housekeeper. Cora’s whole family took to Maddie – and she was best friends with Cora’s granddaughter, Charlie. I have many memories of Maddie's life - but for me, this is the hardest one.


From my journal:

Maman is in her bed – shaking and sweating. I am sitting in a chair next to her, a cloth in my hand, wiping her forehead. I am humming a song, stroking her hair. I rinse out the cloth in a basin, fold it and place it on her head. I take her hand, tracing little circles on it. Maman takes a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes open – they look large, round and surprised. She says my name, “Madeleine,” and reaches out an arm in front of her. I tell her “I’m here Maman.” I climb on the bed with her. I kiss her cheek. She is gasping for air – each sound a horrible wheezing. I feel a terrible fear clutching at me as Maman struggles to breathe – and to speak. She is saying something – and I lean closer to hear. Something is wrong -- her body is jerking. I feel panic fluttering in my chest – start to run for the door, change my mind and run back to her. I wrap my arms around her; bury my face in between her hair and her neck. I am telling her I love her. I feel her arms around me – hear her whispering words – “Ma belle enfant.” Tears are falling from my eyes. I cannot help it – I start sobbing, saying “Maman, Maman,” over and over again. Fear is making my heart pound. Then her arms are falling from me – her body relaxing. “Maman,” I cry, trying to shake her. I am telling her to “Wake up! Wake up!!” Her eyes are open, but they are focused upwards – on the ceiling. A terrible stabbing pain hits my stomach area – moving up through my heart. I feel the stillness in the room. Tears – flow from my eyes and I curl up next to Maman, my head on her chest. No heartbeat…no breath teasing my hair. Just silence and tears as I hold my Maman. I feel crushing sorrow. I can’t hold it inside – I can’t be quiet as I wail in grief. Moments later Cora is pulling me into her arms, trying to pull me away from Maman. I resist, fighting her, unwilling to leave, unwilling to be comforted. Cora finally succeeds in getting me in her arms. “Hush, hush, baby. Your Momma be wit God an’ his angels in Heaven. No more pain, baby.” I am sobbing, my arms around Cora as she carries me from the room.
I am shivering, sitting on the top step in my nightgown. I hear the old witch go to bed, but I am scared to go down the steps until I know she is asleep. Slowly I creep down, staying close to the wall. I go into the parlor. There I see Maman laid out for her funeral. The grandmother has had her dressed in “respectable” clothes – I know Maman would hate it. It is an ugly dress. I step closer and closer to the plain pine box. Maman, Maman, my heart cries silently. Why did you leave me alone? I stare at my mother’s face – slowly reach out a hand to trace the lines – the brows, the cheeks – for the last time. Tomorrow – they put my mother under the dirt. Suddenly -- I can’t breathe! I am choking, gasping for air. My body is shaking as tears run down my face. I want my Maman – I want her to wake up and hold me. I want to reach out and hold her. But I can’t, I can’t…why did she leave me here in this awful country without her? I can't breathe!
Madeleine only lived about a year and a half after her mother’s death. Despite the profound sense of grief and loss I feel at re-experiencing Maman’s death – I can still remember the feeling of all of the good times – the fun times, and all of the special moments that Maddie got to share with her Maman and for that I feel truly blessed. ;)


Aili :)


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Moving Through Grief
 
Same family reincarnation in Italy


As many of you know from our post in the spirit section, I was recently in California visiting Deborah again. :D We did several meditations and we had some interesting things come up – small validations, with a big emotional impact – for us both.


If you haven’t already – you can read about our lifetime together as two sisters, Valeria and Nicoletta, growing up on a small vineyard in Northern Italy in the early 1900’s.


During our meditation we both asked at the beginning to be shown what we need to see. I believe Deborah asked for healing – and I asked to see more of the connection between us. Neither of us knew what question the other had asked, it was done in silence - in fact, we never discussed beforehand that we were even going to ask a question. It was only after the meditation while we were discussing our experiences, that Deborah asked me - if I had asked a specific question. ;)


Interestingly enough – we had some wonderful cross-over experiences. I will share what I wrote in my journal:

Today’s meditation was – emotional. For me, it started out with a pale green light (which is an extremely rare color for me to see!) There was a lot of pressure in my forehead and the buzzing and twitching that accompanied it seemed to “beat in time” with the strobe light in my inner vision. The color changed to blue, and I felt myself – my consciousness – above my head. Every part of me was tingling and the entire bed was vibrating (which Deborah later confirmed experiencing as well). Another interesting note – Deborah and I are both “cold meditators,” meaning we always get ice cold when we are in an altered state. Strange thing is – whenever we meditate together – we both get burning hot. ;)
Anyway – after the change in color of the Light to blue, I saw myself looking out of a window. I couldn’t see anything outside – it was dark, but I felt the coolness of the glass against my forehead and hands as I leaned against it.


Several snippets from other lifetimes appeared randomly – and I switched my focus to a triangle shape – and went immediately to Italy.


I was Nicoletta – and it was THAT day. The day I died. I could hear the bombs dropping. I could hear my Papa calling my name and my brother Luca’s name. He was calling for Mamma. The smoke was thick – there was dust and smoke in the air and I couldn’t breathe. I was scared – shaking – terrified as I huddled against a building, hands to my face to protect myself. I smelled burning – felt the fire on me. Burning my skin – my dress. Rubble and smoke surround me. I am crying – choking on the fumes.


I am aware of a change from within. I can feel – my heart center is so open. I feel so much sadness, grief beyond what can be expressed in written words. My solar plexus hurts – the physical pain is the emotion I am feeling.
This is where it gets even more interesting – at least in my opinion ;) For a while – I have been having memories of our house in Italy, through dreams, spontaneous flashes and meditations. I am seeing it not from the point of view of Nicoletta – but from the point of view of another little girl named Alessandra who was born over 20 years after Nicoletta died. I had not mentioned this to Deborah at the time – except to ask her if the names I remembered meant anything to her.


I did know that Lera had two small girl cousins – and she was much older than they were, closer to their mother’s age. However, I didn’t know how they were dressed or what they were wearing, and that proved another small validation for me. ;)
 
Same family reincarnation in Italy continued


Continued from above post........

From my journal, a few months before the California trip:
I didn’t see the lady we were visiting clearly at first – I only remember her holding me on her lap when I was getting sleepy. She & Mamma were talking about my Boppa (Papa) going to secure travel out of Italy for us.


Mamma is talking to the lady. Mamma’s calling her “Valeria.” I turn my head up to look at her. She looks sad. She has teary eyes. She looks down at me and smiles – it is a real smile, but soft. She puts some cookies and milk on the table for us kids. I go over to her and tell her not to cry. I hug her – and she feels stiff.


We are playing by the tree in the front yard. Mamma and Boppa are not here – they have gone somewhere. Vittoria cried when they left – but I didn’t. I like it here and our cousin lets us run and climb trees. She has given us old dresses to wear – that are much too big and very old and worn. Mine is brown – kind of a heavy material. I am running in bare feet. I have something on my head that keeps my hair out of my face. Vita doesn’t like the dress – and she hates not wearing shoes. I look at my feet and wiggle my toes, feeling the earth below my feet. I run over to the side of the house. There are tomatoes on vines – and I pull one off and bite into it. It’s juicy and it dribbles down my chin and hands. I am giggling.


I am in the kitchen. I can see a piano – but it is closed and dusty. I feel hot and cranky. I am rubbing my eyes and calling for Mamma. Lera comes into the room and she smiles at me and says softly “You’re awake! Would you like to go for a walk with me?” She holds out her hand to me and I look at the ground. She says “Come along, tesserina mia (?)” I walk over to her and take her hand. She is talking to me softly, leading me to the grapes. I ask her “Where are Mamma and Boppa?” She tells me they have gone out on business to meet people for dinner. I ask her “Where are Vita and Gianni?” She tells me that they went to pick fruit to make a pie. I nod my head. Lera crouches beside me and points out into the field. She puts an arm around me and whispers softly to me “Look at all of the grapes, Alessandra.”
I have many more things to share from my earlier journals – including some great validations from that lifetime, but I will share those a bit later – I don’t want to get too far away from the meditation and the shared experience with Deborah. ;)


Back to our meditation:

Then – I am Alessandra. I am with Lera. We are on a small slope not far from the house. There are trees there and I am holding Lera’s hand. I know my sister Vittoria is with us, too, because I can hear my Mamma’s voice in the distance calling, “Valeria, don’t take the girls too far!” Lera is kind – she is gentle and she bends down to my level to point out something in the tree. I can see my hair fall over my shoulder. It’s not black – but more of a light brown that has little shimmers of red in the sun. I am wearing black Mary-Jane type shoes and short socks that are folded down and white. My dress is white with blue embroidery on the front and I can see a blue sash. Lera is wearing old boots that flop on her feet when she walks. She is also wearing a sweater that is old, worn and too large on her. The sleeve cuffs are rolled up a bit.
Then Lera is picking me up. It seems hard for her to do so. I put my hands on her collarbone and push myself back away from her. We simply stare at each other.


I also saw us arriving at Lera’s with our suitcases in hand. They looked similar to small briefcases.


Then I was in the hospital in Venice. Everything was white – cold and sterile. The bed was small, hard, and had side rails and scratchy white sheets. No one was in the room with me.
At this point – we were interrupted by ringing phones and banging doors – and decided to end the meditation. I will let Deborah tell you her experiences, and you can see from her post how we get our validations ;)


Aili :D


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Italy - Our Story Continues
 
Dublin Foundling Hospital


I was looking through some old journals the other night and found a life I haven’t done much work on. I wanted to share a few things...

It’s Ireland – Dublin, I feel. I am about 6 years old. I am working in some sort of room with other children. I am making lace (?) Two men are walking around – watching what we are doing. Someone is calling me Sarah, tugging at my sleeve. I look down – it’s a younger girl, perhaps 4. I know her name is Bridget. She’s not my sister, but I watch over her. I am scared and tell her to get back to work before we get in trouble.
I am sleeping in a bed with straw on it. There are two other children in the bed with me. One is coughing. I roll over; my hands are itchy and swollen. As I turn over I can feel my ribs sticking out. A woman comes into the room – she tells us to get up – get up and get to morning meal.
Life was hard – food was scarce, and the conditions were awful. Young babies and newborns were left in a basket on the porch – there was a man there whose job it was to check and bring them in.

I am walking by a man who is dozing on a chair. I see a basket with three babies in it – they are tiny and crying – and naked. I wonder why the man is not helping them. I hear someone coming and hide behind a door. I can see a large woman leading several women inside.
We are in the “dining hall," which is little more than a few old wooden tables and unsteady benches. Cast-offs. I am wearing some sort of gray woolen dress and black woolen tights with holes in them. I have black boots, but they are too tight and I can feel them pinching my feet. There is a bowl of mush (?) that looks gray and clumpy and some sort of dry bread that is hard. There is something in a cup – tea I think. But it’s watery and there’s no milk for it.


Then I am in the kitchen, helping wash the dishes in a big wooden basin. The water isn’t clean. The water is ice cold and scraps of food are floating in it. There is a young boy stacking wood by a fireplace. A big black pot hangs in it. There is a smell – like rotting meat and cabbage. I want to gag.


There is a woman – who takes in the babies and organizes the nurses. She is the one who gives us names and sometimes records things in a register. I’ve been thinking that she can tell me who my family is. I feel nervous as I go to her office. I enter with my head bowed. She asks me what I want and I tell her I want to know who my mam is. She asks me to repeat my question; I have mumbled it. I feel a blush on my cheeks. I stumble through and ask her again. She looks at me a moment before laughing. Then she looks in her book and tells me “ We’ve no idea where you came from. You were left here in 1733.” I nod at her and feel my hope slip away.
This post and discussion continued in the thread Dublin Foundling Hospital/Workhouse 1700's
 
Dublin Foundling Hospital continued

There is a girl about 9 standing by the window looking out. I ask her what her name is and she says, “Catherine.” I ask her why she’s crying and she tells me she misses her parents. They died – and she was sent here. She asks when I came here and I tell her when I was a baby.


Catherine and I go into a room to sweep the floors. We walk by some children on a bed. They are piled on the bed – I know they are dead. Catherine screams and points at them. I take a thin blanket from one of the other beds and put it over the bodies. I tell her we have to hurry – have to finish or there’ll be trouble. We don’t speak, but keep sweeping. It’s a common sight – I am used to it, but Catherine cries. I don’t understand her tears, people die all the time. I never cry.


Catherine and I are cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace. We are playing a game while we do it. She is teaching me letters, tracing them in the ashes. I am trying to follow her, but it’s hard and I’m feeling frustrated.


Catherine is telling us stories about what a family is like. We three are in one bed, Catherine, Bridget and I. She is telling us about her Mam and how she sang songs and how they went to church. I am having a hard time understanding how different Catherine’s life was before she came here – and most of the time I don’t know what she means, but I like the stories.
Eventually I was taken in by a family as a servant, however the family decided to go to America, and I was sent back to the workhouse.

I am 7 years old. I’ve been taken in by a family, to be a servant to their children and to help in the kitchen. It is strange being here – seeing how people live in a house. There is so much room – for so few people. I have my own room off the kitchen. I feel lonely and scared in this room. I miss the other girls – miss having someone share my bed. It’s very quiet here. But I don’t cry.
I am watching the mother with one of her kids. She is fussing over her daughter, who has something wrong with her legs – she stays in bed all the time. It’s fascinating to me – to see that grown-ups are different from what I know them to be. I watch her talking to her daughter, sitting on the edge of her bed, touching her cheek and something in my heart hurts. I think about what it would be like, to be this girl. I think about what it would be like not to walk. In that moment I make a decision – I tell God – that if He gives me a mother like her, He can take away my legs and make this girl walk again instead.


I go to church with the family. I even have a good dress and boots that fit. The mother has given me some of her children’s old clothes. I feel proud to have such fine things. I am very careful with them – I keep them as clean and neat as I can. After church I am allowed to eat with the family, but the rest of the week I serve them and take my meals with the other help in the kitchen. The food is good and there is always plenty to eat.


I am 8 – and the parents tell me that they are sending me back to the workhouse. I feel panic in my chest – and for the first time I cry. I feel shame for crying, but I can’t stop the tears. I don’t want to go back! I am holding onto the mother’s skirts, pleading to be allowed to go with them. She pats my head and tells me they are going to America and they cannot take the help. My heart feels broken – I have grown to love this family. I am begging her to take me to America – promising to work harder, do more -- but she tells me that they will be staying with relatives – and there is only room for her own children. She tells me I can take the good clothes with me – and she will give me some more when they pack all of their things. I am sobbing, I don’t want to go back. My heart hurts so badly…I run from the room.


I am back at the workhouse. Catherine is still there and I am happy to see her. I have given her one of the good dresses and a pair of woolen tights. The rest were taken from me when I came back and given to the other girls. I ask Catherine where Bridget is and she looks sad. She tells me Bridget died. I don’t cry when I hear the news – but I feel a deep sadness in my heart that I’ve never felt before when someone died.


Then I am standing beside the dirty window remembering Bridget – I feel tears slipping down my cheeks. She was like my little sister. I let myself cry now – when everyone else is sleeping. I feel someone tugging at my hand and turn thinking it’s Bridget – but it’s Catherine. I wipe my tears away and tell her I am fine. Catherine says, “It’s okay to cry.” I tell her I’m not crying and turn away from her. I tell her to go back to bed. I feel angry and ashamed that Catherine caught me crying.
I know very little else – except my friend Catherine and I wanted to leave and we whispered about it far into the night.

Catherine is thin and pale. I feel scared for her. She has a terrible cough. I tell her we need to leave this place. She tells me there’s nowhere to go. I tell her I have a plan, but we need to leave Ireland – we can get on a ship. She starts to get excited, asking “Could we, Sarah? Do you really think we could?” I nod at her and we start whispering, making plans.
This post and discussion continued in the thread Dublin Foundling Hospital/Workhouse 1700's
 
Russian ballerina in training


I know that in many of my pl’s there have been important “teachers” that I respected – and looked up to. I will share one of them:


In my life in Russia, I wanted to be a ballerina. We lived not far from the school and I desperately wanted to go there. I was technically not old enough to get into the school – but my parents had money and influence at the time. They were very loving and generous with all four of us children and encouraged us to pursue our dreams. They had a studio built in our home – just for me to practice. I remember going through a rigorous examination by several people – my feet, my bone structure etc. One of the men recommended a retired prima ballerina - to come to the house to give me lessons in private in preparation for the entrance audition – which for me, was still several years away. This ballerina had injured herself quite young – and walked with a cane. She became a good friend – even though she was a very difficult and demanding person when she was teaching, she was very affectionate “after work.” I was with her for several years. During this time, she instilled a great love of dance in me, as well as discipline, focus and perfect technique. ;)


Aili


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Past Life Mentors???
 
Alessandra's lifetime


I thought I'd share a few more memories from my journal about Alessandra's lifetime:

It is a cool evening. I am sitting outside with Lera – in her lap. I am leaning my head back against her – she is talking softly, counting stars with me. Vita is leaning on Lera’s other side. There are lots here in the country. Suddenly I see a very bright one and point to the sky, excited. “Look, look!” I cry. Lera says, “It’s a very special star, bambina.” Lera takes my tiny hand in her big one and says, “ Look, me-de-see-mee.”
Then I am in the house, putting on my shoes. Gianni pops his head in and says, “Ready?” I jump up and run for the door and we start out for the road. Lera is coming from the barn. She says, “Where are you two going?” Gianni tells her that he’s taking me to town for a treat. Lera starts shaking her head and saying, “No. Not when I’m supposed to be watching her.” Gianni is a bit angry. He tells her, “Lera, I take Alessa into Venezia all the time and my parents never have a problem with it.” But Lera just says he can go – but I’m not allowed. I beg her, but she shakes her head and tells me we can work in the garden instead. I am mad at Lera. I want to go to town! Gianni says he will bring me something back and I watch him go. Lera holds out her hand to me and says “Come along, bambina.” I shake my head, cross my arms and stomp my foot and tell her “It’s not fair! You’re mean!!!!!” Then I am running toward the vista point.


We are all seated together in the hospital room – Boppa, Mamma, Gianni, Vita and me. Gemma is there, too, hovering in the corner of the room. Mamma is seated far across the room with her arm around Vita. They are talking about my sickness – leukemia. They are trying to explain it to Vita – Mamma keeps telling her “It’s bad blood that caused it.” Vita asks if she will catch it, too. Mamma tells her, “Of course not, cara mia. You have good blood, just like me.”


I hear Boppa and Mamma talking in the hall outside my room. Mamma is telling him in a very angry voice that “That child is not my responsibility.” I feel tears on my face. Then I hear Gianni’s voice – he is telling off Mamma! He is telling her she is selfish. Mamma sounds indignant when she tells him to “Keep out of things you doesn’t understand.” He says, “I understand my little sister is dying and her mother isn’t with her.” Then Gianni is in my room – he asks if I heard and I nod. I tell him I don’t understand why Mamma doesn’t love me like Vita. He tells me that it’s complicated grown-up stuff.


I am sitting with Gianni. We are playing a game like checkers – but with gumdrops he has smuggled into the hospital. I tell him I want to go to the vineyard. He says, “Maybe soon.” I ask him if he mailed my letter and drawing to Lera – and he says, “I told you I did.” I ask him, “When will she come, Gianni?” He says he doesn’t know.
This post and discussion is continued in the thread Italy - Our Story Continues
 
Childbirth in the garden


I thought I would share a memory from one of my lives in France. It was the very end of the memory that had me laughing hard – I still giggle when I think of the look on my sister’s and mother’s faces. It was positively priceless. My (Aurelie’s) naïve innocence about childbirth also had me smiling. My baby in that life – certainly decided to make a grand debut. :D

I am with my mother and my sister Anne-Elise, walking in the garden, amid a bountiful display of flowers. I have bent over to smell one – when I feel a funny sensation. I feel embarrassed, but eventually I tell my mother. She tells my sister to send the servants for the doctor. Anne-Elise runs off. Maman is trying to help me back to the house – but immediately the pain is intense. I can feel the baby’s head!! I tell Maman the baby is going to fall out on the ground and she says that is ridiculous – babies don’t just fall out.
I can feel my eyes growing wider as I clutch my mother’s arm – I can feel what I’m certain is the head on my inner thighs. Maman is trying to calm me – saying first babies take hours and I haven’t even showed symptoms of birthing. I have a serious fear that my baby is just going to fall right out of me and despite Maman’s protests; I lay down on the ground, my arms wrapped around my stomach. I notice I am under a rosebush.


Maman is telling me to get up – we need to get to the house. I grab her arm, screaming. I feel Maman lifting my dress. I can feel the baby slipping out – and I hear Maman shout for help. I am looking at the roses surrounding me – a moment later I hear a tiny little mewling cry.


My mother is pale – in shock, squatting on the ground holding the tiny, bloody infant in her hands. Maman says in a shaky voice - that I have a baby girl. Then she is crying, I am crying – and the baby is crying. When my sister runs back to us she literally stops dead in front of us, staring with huge eyes, unable to speak a word. She looks from my weeping mother, to the squalling baby, to me under the roses. I start laughing at the look on her face – I cannot help it. It must be a very strange sight.
This post and discussion is continued in the thread Funny Memories
 
Two lifetimes in Italy

From Nicoletta's life


I was running up the stairs in our house in Italy. I was about 7 years old. I ran into the bedroom. Lera was sitting on the bed reading a book. I was pestering her to come out and play with me. She kept telling me to go away. I grabbed her book - but she was faster and grabbed it back and gave me a little push. She rolled her eyes at me and told me to "Go climb a tree or something." I stood in front of her with my arms crossed, stomping my feet, whining that I wanted her to play.


I saw myself in the bedroom with Lera - we were packing our clothes. We had one "trunk" between us and we were arguing over who got more space. Every time one of us turned around to get something - we would remove something belonging to the other person. It was not going well.


Then I was sitting on the ground cross-legged facing Lera. She was teaching me a hand-clapping song. I was small - about 5, and she was being very patient with me as I wasn't very co-ordinated and kept missing the proper moves. Then Mamma was calling to us that is was time for dinner. We stood up and dusted ourselves off and walked toward the house. We were giggling as we walked.


From Alessandra's life


I was in the hospital in Venice. I focused on the window in the hospital room. I could feel the rosary in my hand, felt it slip up my arm (I had it looped over my hand). I noticed it was cloudy outside the window, and I heard myself asking again, "Gianni, when's Lera coming?"


I was at the tree by the graves. I was about 4. Lera came saying everyone was looking for me. I heard an airplane - and I looked up to see a plane fly over - it looked green in color. I pointed to it. Lera got upset and picked me up - she started almost running toward the house. I was scared - and started to cry.


I found myself in my house in Venice. It was just a very brief flash of playing in my bedroom - with a huge wooden dollhouse. The small dolls in my hands were also carved from wood. The clothes were painted on them.


I was in my house in Venice and I was playing with a red kaleidoscope. Lera was there - and I showed it to her. She looked into it and said it was very pretty -- but then she took it away from me because it had a German name. She called to Boppa and told him it was made in Germany. Boppa said he didn't know. I felt very confused.
This post and discussion is continued in the thread Italy - Our Story Continues
 
Gypsy Life & Culture


I’ve had two lifetimes with the Gypsies. :D The one I’m going to share a little about – is from Romania in the early 1500’s.


What I remember – is a big, loving family “group” moving together. My mother was a street performer – a musician. She had many other skills and means of earning money for our survival. If someone didn’t have enough, the other members of the community assisted them, so there was never a question of going without.


When we were with our people – I was safe and loved. I knew I was “different” from others, but no one from our group was ever unkind to me. It was entirely different when we moved into villages to perform. I never went along – I stayed hidden back at camp. My mother tried to hide me from others when she performed. I had malformed legs and she was aware of how cruelly our people were treated by “outsiders.” She knew they wouldn’t understand or accept her misshapen little daughter.


For the most part, we were carefree and didn’t remain too long in one place. Most outsiders were quite hostile and “our kind” was not welcomed in most places. That seemed to matter little to our community. We knew people in passing everywhere we went - other groups that travelled together. It was a happy life – until most of our “family” members were captured – and enslaved simply for being gypsies. Eventually, even the ones who eluded capture were separated.


I found some interesting things while researching:

“…the first recorded sale of Roma slaves was in Romania in 1385; a little later, in 1416, Roma were expelled from the Meissen region of Germany. In 1445 the Prince of Wallachia kidnapped 12,000 Gypsies from Bulgaria and put them to slave labour, and in 1449, Roma were driven out of the city of Frankfurt, Germany. The very first anti-Gypsy laws were passed in Switzerland in 1471 and in the same year 17,000 Roma were transported into Moldavia for slave labour.
During the rest of the 16th, 17th, and 18th century the harassment, persecution, and legislation against the Roma continued throughout most of Europe and Scandinavia. Punishment for merely being Rom in Western Europe included deportation (if lucky), galley slavery, flogging, mutilation, or even execution. Persecution of Gypsies has been the norm ever since.”
A good friend of mine in my present life – Adriana – is from Romania. I told her a little about my memories, and mentioned several words to her that I had written down. She said she did not understand most of them – but a few stood out as being distinctly Romanian.

In Eastern Europe they were enslaved to work either in the fields or in the households of the landowners. The slaves that had been made to work in the homes of the landowners had lost their ancient tongue and acquired the Romanian, Latin based, language. These Romanian speaking Roma have now spread through Hungary and the Balkans into Western Europe and all parts of the western hemisphere. The agricultural slaves maintained much more of their ancient traditions including the Roma language. The Levara, the Churara, and the Macuaya all speak dialects of Roma known as Vlax, and these are the most numerous and widespread of the Gypsies.
Aili


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Gypsy life and culture
 
Life at a Monastery during the 1300's Plague


I was a little girl named “Elisha” and I lived with my Aunt and her family. I considered them my parents – and her two sons were brothers to me. They used to tease me mercilessly about having a “boy’s name.” It was given to me by my mother – who was my Aunt’s sister. She was a nun at the abbey and I didn’t know her very well when I was really young, but I remember being a little bit in awe of someone “so close to God.”


It was a very happy, simple life. I was very loved. After the plague came and our parents and one brother died - my remaining brother and I ended up at the abbey, where they were housing/feeding survivors.


It was raining – and there were many, many people there. The church had set up temporary little wooden shelters – and there was a specific order. You had to progress through several different ones – before getting to the abbey or the monastery. Men and women were separated. Boy children who had been weaned – were sent with the men. They wanted to make sure you weren’t ill. If someone in your group showed any signs of illness – you were sent back to the start. Unfortunately more people caught fevers from the lack of nutrition and freezing wet conditions.


I remember huddling against the side of the makeshift shelter – my hair stuck to my cheeks – my clothing soaked through. My teeth were chattering. I was scared – terrified of being alone. My family was dead – my surviving brother gone to the men’s side. I didn’t – or couldn’t speak to anyone. One of the nuns came – bringing fresh bread and some sort of broth in a bucket. They were checking people – one knelt in front of me – they were saying there’s no space left and people were being moved to the next several towns. She saw the wooden cross around my neck – she knew my name – who I was.


Here are a few memories from my journals:

It is 1348 – and I am 5 years old. I look down. I am wearing some sort of calf-length dark blue dress. Something is on my head – some sort of hat. The dress is woollen – thick. So are the black tights/leggings I’m wearing. My hair is long – straight – dark blonde - I can see it hanging over my shoulders. Hanging from twine is a handmade wooden cross. I hold it in my hand – on the back are the letters that spell my name. E-L-I-S-H-A.


I am with the Sisters in the kitchen. We are working silently – they are cooking, I am helping prepare the food. One of them – Sister Margaretta, asks me to fetch some wood from the shed – to restock the supply by the fireplace. I grab some sort of wrap from the peg by the door – and head outside. It’s cold – I can see my breath – feel the chill in the air as it hits my lungs.


I am with my brothers William and Michael. We are playing – running through the fields close to the city. They are teasing me – telling me Elisha is a boy’s name. I shake my head and tell them I am a girl! I am proud of my name because my mum gave it to me. I see her sometimes in the yard at the convent, working in the gardens; I know who she is. I am secretly impressed with her calling – and very proud she is my mother. I already know that I want to be just like her.


I’m about 6. We are going to church with our parents. There are dead bodies everywhere – in piles along the street. We have handkerchiefs that smell funny pressed against our noses. A woman stumbles out of a doorway – grabbing my father’s arms – wailing her children are dead. She – is hideous. Her neck has what looks like a big lump or boil – purple black in color. Her skin is blotched. Even her nails and fingers are black-ish. She reaches for me, saying “pretty little child.” My mother pushes me behind her – and the woman struggles to get to me through my parents. My mother tells us – to go home quickly and not speak to anyone. I feel my brothers pulling me – we’re running.


I am sitting huddled in a small wooden shelter. One side is open – blowing in rain. There are very few other children there. They have kept us there for several days – making sure that none of us have the sickness. There are several makeshift wooden structures – all housing children and adults looking for somewhere safe. They lead up the path to the abbey. The people progress from one shelter to the next each day they remain well. If sickness is found in their group – they must start over again. I have been separated from my brother – he is sent to the men’s side. I am cold – and wet from the rain. I am shivering – and scared.


I feel someone take my cross. Someone says my name - Elisha. She tells me to come with her, and she takes me into the kitchen area, where she scrubs me down and puts new clothes on me. There is a gray woollen dress and tights. They are much too big on me. She tries to take my cross – to burn it. I start sobbing and clutch it with both hands. Brother Aloysius made it for me. She looks sadly at me and tells me that I must be a good little child and not cry. But she doesn’t take my cross.


I see her! She looks at me across the room. She bows her head quickly and walks over to the Abbess. They both look at me and the Abbess nods. Then – she is walking towards me; she kneels in front of me and takes my hands in hers. She looks deeply into my eyes. I feel like I can hear her thoughts – feel her sadness about my parents. I hear her wispy soft voice say she is sorry about my family and I feel myself nodding. She tells me I am safe. She asks me if I’d like to pray with her and I nod again, taking her hand. She leads me into a small chapel where several sisters are in prayer. I follow her movements – huddled beside her. I feel myself moving close to her as she prays out loud. Her warmth – the sound of her voice – are comforting to me.
Aili


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Life at a Monastery during the 1300's Plague
 
Triggers and Shared Validations during meditation


I recently came back from another visit to California to spend time with Deborah. As Deborah mentioned, we left our meditating until the last couple of days. We had a few opportunities earlier – and had even planned on it, but it just didn’t feel like the right moment to either of us. Neither of us wanted to do a meditation if we weren’t in the right frame of mind, nor if we weren’t both into it.


Occasionally, Deborah and I will do a remote partnered exploration – while she is in California, and I am in Canada. We have had some interesting revelations, cross-over experiences and validations. But it just isn’t the same – as physically being in the same space as the other person. The energy is magnified – the intensity of the whole experience escalates. It seems like whenever we are together – we have all of these amazingly profound experiences. It’s a really extraordinary feeling – to meditate with someone and compare notes after and realize – you were seeing the exact same thing from a different perspective. No matter how often it happens – the profundity of the experience never fails to awe me.


I have never meditated while physically touching another person – but Deborah’s meditation experience with Daniel, and the intensity and depth of our previous shared experiences, made me want to try something new – so I asked her to hold my hand during the meditation as she did with Daniel and see if that made any difference in the experience. Boy – did it ever. The flow of energy through my whole body – and out my toes was so powerful I was twitching. At times I was aware of the energy between Deborah and myself – it was pulsating between our palms. The intensity of inner light – was both beautiful and inspiring at the same time. I could feel my third eye area enfolding in energy – and it’s so difficult to explain, but the expansion of my heart chakra was so immense – I felt completely wide open – just this pure flow of universal energy, love and joy surrounded me.


It was interesting to me – to note that we both went into the meditation without a focus – we never discussed it, just decided to go for it while the house was quiet. Yet we both hit an altered state immediately – and we both went directly to the monastery.


Here are the notes from my journal:

The meditation started out with a vibrant blue Light and I was in fast. I went straight to the monastery. I saw myself as Elisha – running down the hallway with stone walls. I was giggling a little to myself as I ran. I noticed the blue tint on the floor from the colored windows and the uneven stones with water stains.
Then I was walking outside with my mother (the nun). I had my hand tucked into a small “pocket” at the side of her clothing. She was going about her work – with me hanging off her. Neither of us were talking.


I saw myself carrying small squares of folded fabric in my arms – out to the shed in the back. They were small - about the size of a washcloth, folded over.


I jumped to the dining area in the monastery – where the children were waiting to be fed after the adults had eaten. It was fairly close to when I first arrived there – I was scared, unsure of what I was supposed to do. I was standing – then squatting – with my back against the wall. It was really cold – and I felt hungry and tired.


Then I was briefly in the kitchen. Various nuns were working, but I paid little attention to them as I dashed out the back door, across the garden and over the “hedge” area to the men’s side. I was looking for Brother Aloysius.


I jumped to carrying a big tureen filled with some sort of watery broth. It was huge and heavy – my arms couldn’t even fit around it. As I was carrying it – it was sloshing over the sides onto my clothing and hands. I was carrying it out back to the wooden shed.


I was kneeling reciting prayers before the white statuette of Mary – but I was REALLY full of energy and not wanting to be praying. I kept moving my hands and rocking on my knees. I did not want to sit still. The floor was cold – and hard on my knees.


Then I went to Italy. I jumped back and forth quite a bit between Alessandra’s life and Nicoletta’s life. Small – fairly inconsequential flashes in Nica’s life that I'm not going to bother posting.


I went to the country house. I was with Lera – and I was upset with her, asking “Is it true?” I ran from her – and was hiding in a small space. I had one leg curled up to my chest – and one leg sticking out in front of me. My face was turned away – chin down to my chest.


I saw myself on the top of a hill as Alessandra – holding Lera’s hand, watching a sunset over the vineyard. As fast as that came – I went to Venice. I was bouncing down the street ahead of Lera giggling and telling her to hurry up!


I saw myself as Nicoletta in the kitchen laughing with my sister - just a simple silly moment as we were cooking. It felt light - joyful.

[/QUOTE]
 
continued from previous post.........

This is when the plane Deborah mentioned in her post – flew over the house. I was consciously aware of it – but at the same time, the sound immediately triggered the last day. I was in the middle of the bombing, screaming for Papa. My dress and my hair were on fire. There was smoke – I was choking; I couldn’t breathe. I felt my body shaking during the meditation, it was such a visceral reaction - I had no control over it.


I went to the hospital – to Alessandra’s last days. I can feel myself – in and out of my body. I am weak, feverish. I can hear hospital noises in the background – people working, walking down the halls, talking. I am aware – my eyes are CLOSED. I can feel someone lifting my body up – wrapping me in a blanket. Someone is singing a song.


I saw my brother Gianni, helping me write the last letter I sent to Lera - asking her to come and see me. He was patiently helping me.


Then I am at my (Alessandra’s) funeral. I am standing – looking at myself in the casket. I’m not scared – but fascinated. I see the pretty white dress, the long ringlets over my shoulders. I see the way my hands are folded across my chest – the rosary neatly folded over the top of my small hand. I turn and notice people have small cards in their hands. I can hear people crying in the background. I turn back to the casket and I see my brother, Gianni, as he tucks my special cloth doll in beside me when her thinks no one is looking.
Another thing I should mention that I found really interesting - is Deborah's memory of the rabbit trap and the garden – and my previous memory of hiding a rabbit in my room – a wild one from the garden. I had not shared that memory yet – with anyone. Yet in her experience – she was telling Elisha the snare in the garden WOULD NOT harm the animals – as she knew Elisha was sensitive.


Here's a brief excerpt:

I am in the garden, helping the Sisters. My mother is working close by – I can see her. Every so often she will come over and check to see what I am doing. I am on my hands and knees in the dirt pulling weeds when I see it – a little fluffy brown rabbit. It’s just a baby. I know it must come from the burrow between the monastery and the abbey. I play there a lot and I know where they hide. The Sisters will be really mad if they see another rabbit in the garden.
I crawl quietly on my hands and knees toward it. It doesn’t hop away – but sits looking at me. I pick it up and softly coo at it. I feel a thrill of excitement. I look back to the Sisters – they are not watching me. Just then – my mother looks up at me and calls to me to ask where I am going. I tell her I have to go inside for a minute and she looks at me kind of funny – I feel my cheeks flush and rush away, worried she will know what I am up to. I take him back to my room and shut him in carefully....
Aili :D


This post and discussion is continued in the thread Triggers and shared validations.
 
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