-barry-
Member
On 8 March 2010, I underwent a ‘life-between-lives’ (LBL) regression session with a hypnotherapist, Hazel Newton. To begin the session, we began by dropping into a past life, one chosen by the wisdom of my higher guidance. You can find the complete account (with pictures) at my website here: http://wp.me/pvdM6-14Q. I suspect the afterlife experience is off-topic for this forum, so if you want to read about that please go here: http://wp.me/pvdM6-15L
PART 1
I found myself in female form, wearing a simple, check-patterned dress and some kind of shawl. I had black wavy hair which hung down the back of my neck but something like a headscarf was tied over my head to keep the hair off my face.
I was in my early twenties and my name was either Mary or something like it. The surname sounded like Donegan or Gallagher or something similar with three syllables.
I lived in a small town or village by the Irish coast in the eighteenth century. The only place-name I got sounded something like ‘Fairer’. Other place-names seemed too obscure to me, though I had the impression of Irish-sounding names with four or five syllables.
I was serving in a bar or perhaps more precisely a tavern or hostel. It was daytime, sunny. The customers were mostly sailor types with faces that were red, shiny and bearded. There was a cheerful atmosphere but at that moment I was feeling overworked. I think we were under-staffed so I was having to do it all myself. Certain customers kept interrupting me, which I found irritating though I knew they meant well.
Next, it was a dark and murky evening and I was looking at a tall sailing ship which had arrived at a local harbour. I intended to get on it. My plan was to run away on that ship tonight to start a new life, to have adventures.
I had dressed to look older than I really was and I had with me a couple of travel cases. I was drumming up the nerve to ask the guy watching the gang-plank to let me go aboard. But then I started feeling nervous. I was having second thoughts, worrying about what dangers might lie waiting for me.
In the end I got cold feet and just went home.
Now I was really disappointed with myself. Disappointed but also confused.
‘Maybe I made the right decision. Maybe it’s best to play safe.’
I felt cross with myself for giving in to my fears. I felt like I had lost my one chance at starting a new life.
In the next scene I again found myself in the tavern, some time later. A tall, blond man had entered in with a couple of other men. I was very attracted to this blond man and as he sat at a table I soon began flirting with him — not too obviously, just catching his eye now and then and smiling. When he smiled back, I was thrilled!
The next scene was of me just having had a baby. I was exhausted but delighted with this ‘little pink thing’ being placed on my chest. And my husband — the blond man! — was very pleased for me, knowing how much I had wanted a child.
The next scene was a shocker. I was out with my husband and baby, taking a walk along the tall coastal cliffs. It was a sunny but windy day, and I have the impression that it was a Sunday afternoon. My husband was ‘playing silly buggers’, prancing near the edge of the cliff … when suddenly he slipped over the edge and fell straight to his death. I saw his body down on the rocks below.
I was in a state of panic. I looked at my baby and thought, ‘What are we going to do?’ I lay on the grass on the top of the cliff, holding the baby, sobbing.
But then a weird peace came over me. Everything seemed strangely beautiful — the sunshine on my baby’s soft face, the grass blowing in the wind, the clouds scudding overhead. As I looked into my baby’s face I had a sense of knowing that everything would be alright.
It seemed to me that in that moment God had smiled reassuringly upon me, and I felt blessed.
Some time later (days? weeks?) there was a memorial event at the spot where my husband had fallen. The local priest or vicar had organised this service and at my behest we had also erected a little ‘monument’ at the spot, partly to remember my husband and partly to warn others not to get too close to the edge of the cliff. (The ‘monument’ was like a miniature obelisk, about 1 meter tall, and possibly no more than a wooden post.)
Since the accident, my baby and I had been taken care of by the local church — named St. Cuthbert’s? — by the priest (Father John somebody) and some good Samaritans. Now this priest was telling me, ‘We have been good to you. Now you have to do something for us.’ Basically he wanted me to become his housemaid.
I was disheartened — it meant an even duller life than I’d had before I was married. But I felt obligated.
So in the next scene I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the priest’s cottage. It was several years later — 1791 came to mind.
It was a dark little house with a very low ceiling. There were lots of books and and ornaments and trinkets in the cottage which I liked to look at while the priest was out. But I felt that I was already turning into an old maid — I was losing my looks and had kind of given up on myself. I’m not sure what had happened to my child, our boy, Roger, who it appears would be seven now. I think the church had somehow taken him on and sent him away somewhere for an education or training.
Then I was having an argument with the priest. I was putting my foot down, saying, ‘I’ve paid my dues. I never wanted to work here anyway!’ This felt strange in that it was the first time I had ever known of anyone shouting at a priest.
He was saying, ‘Mary, you don’t know what will become of you. Where will you go? What will you do? There’s nothing you can do! You won’t survive on your own.’ I felt that he wanted me to stay as much for his own convenience as it was out of concern for my welfare.
[continues...]
PART 1
I found myself in female form, wearing a simple, check-patterned dress and some kind of shawl. I had black wavy hair which hung down the back of my neck but something like a headscarf was tied over my head to keep the hair off my face.
I was in my early twenties and my name was either Mary or something like it. The surname sounded like Donegan or Gallagher or something similar with three syllables.
I lived in a small town or village by the Irish coast in the eighteenth century. The only place-name I got sounded something like ‘Fairer’. Other place-names seemed too obscure to me, though I had the impression of Irish-sounding names with four or five syllables.
I was serving in a bar or perhaps more precisely a tavern or hostel. It was daytime, sunny. The customers were mostly sailor types with faces that were red, shiny and bearded. There was a cheerful atmosphere but at that moment I was feeling overworked. I think we were under-staffed so I was having to do it all myself. Certain customers kept interrupting me, which I found irritating though I knew they meant well.
Next, it was a dark and murky evening and I was looking at a tall sailing ship which had arrived at a local harbour. I intended to get on it. My plan was to run away on that ship tonight to start a new life, to have adventures.
I had dressed to look older than I really was and I had with me a couple of travel cases. I was drumming up the nerve to ask the guy watching the gang-plank to let me go aboard. But then I started feeling nervous. I was having second thoughts, worrying about what dangers might lie waiting for me.
In the end I got cold feet and just went home.
Now I was really disappointed with myself. Disappointed but also confused.
‘Maybe I made the right decision. Maybe it’s best to play safe.’
I felt cross with myself for giving in to my fears. I felt like I had lost my one chance at starting a new life.
In the next scene I again found myself in the tavern, some time later. A tall, blond man had entered in with a couple of other men. I was very attracted to this blond man and as he sat at a table I soon began flirting with him — not too obviously, just catching his eye now and then and smiling. When he smiled back, I was thrilled!
The next scene was of me just having had a baby. I was exhausted but delighted with this ‘little pink thing’ being placed on my chest. And my husband — the blond man! — was very pleased for me, knowing how much I had wanted a child.
The next scene was a shocker. I was out with my husband and baby, taking a walk along the tall coastal cliffs. It was a sunny but windy day, and I have the impression that it was a Sunday afternoon. My husband was ‘playing silly buggers’, prancing near the edge of the cliff … when suddenly he slipped over the edge and fell straight to his death. I saw his body down on the rocks below.
I was in a state of panic. I looked at my baby and thought, ‘What are we going to do?’ I lay on the grass on the top of the cliff, holding the baby, sobbing.
But then a weird peace came over me. Everything seemed strangely beautiful — the sunshine on my baby’s soft face, the grass blowing in the wind, the clouds scudding overhead. As I looked into my baby’s face I had a sense of knowing that everything would be alright.
It seemed to me that in that moment God had smiled reassuringly upon me, and I felt blessed.
Some time later (days? weeks?) there was a memorial event at the spot where my husband had fallen. The local priest or vicar had organised this service and at my behest we had also erected a little ‘monument’ at the spot, partly to remember my husband and partly to warn others not to get too close to the edge of the cliff. (The ‘monument’ was like a miniature obelisk, about 1 meter tall, and possibly no more than a wooden post.)
Since the accident, my baby and I had been taken care of by the local church — named St. Cuthbert’s? — by the priest (Father John somebody) and some good Samaritans. Now this priest was telling me, ‘We have been good to you. Now you have to do something for us.’ Basically he wanted me to become his housemaid.
I was disheartened — it meant an even duller life than I’d had before I was married. But I felt obligated.
So in the next scene I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the priest’s cottage. It was several years later — 1791 came to mind.
It was a dark little house with a very low ceiling. There were lots of books and and ornaments and trinkets in the cottage which I liked to look at while the priest was out. But I felt that I was already turning into an old maid — I was losing my looks and had kind of given up on myself. I’m not sure what had happened to my child, our boy, Roger, who it appears would be seven now. I think the church had somehow taken him on and sent him away somewhere for an education or training.
Then I was having an argument with the priest. I was putting my foot down, saying, ‘I’ve paid my dues. I never wanted to work here anyway!’ This felt strange in that it was the first time I had ever known of anyone shouting at a priest.
He was saying, ‘Mary, you don’t know what will become of you. Where will you go? What will you do? There’s nothing you can do! You won’t survive on your own.’ I felt that he wanted me to stay as much for his own convenience as it was out of concern for my welfare.
[continues...]
