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- I was in the Peace Corps and served in Cameroon, West Africa. During Peace Corps training in Quebec, being an artist, I occasionally helped the trainers by drawing illustrations about what they were teaching us. They commented more than once about how I automatically knew what African scenes looked like. When I arrived in Cameroon, it flashed in my mind as we were in the air over Douala, where I would end up being posted, “He’s down there.”
- A couple of months later, when working in that city, I met a young African to whom I became close. He seemed familiar to me. Many years later I had a reading by a psychic who told me I had been a slave named Cornelia “somewhere in the South in the early 1800s” and that I had been brought over pregnant, then lost the baby in what they called a “hospital” (which was a dirty building at the time).
- During this present life, though I am white and now in my 60s, I have always loved black music, rarely ever white music unless it is black inspired (such as swing). In my earlier days (I have since had a hip replacement which has slowed this down), I was, if I say so myself, a very good dancer. I have had total strangers, including black men, come up to me on the dance floor to tell me how well I could dance. At a Cameroonian wedding in Philadelphia, one told me I danced “like a Douala girl.”
- I believe that the man I met in Africa in this lifetime was, in that earlier lifetime, either the father of the baby I lost or possibly my father or brother. I need to add that when I watched Roots years ago or if I watch any show with slaves or bigoted Southerners in it, I get all riled up, even to the point of yelling at the TV!
Today is very busy for me, I am extremely tired and have not gotten much rest, but I have an obligation to this site and tonight is the second of our Book Club Night for our Naughty Discussions and I have yet to write the second part to Penny, much less send it off to you my club members. I have shared from off the internet some stories of reincarnation, and past life memories, I did this so that I can have time to write on Penny, email them out to you as I am running behind schedule. At later date I too will add my own story of past life memories and there are many, but there is one which still gets me teary eyed when I remember it. Please remember tomorrow will be Improv Saturday, Any one can open the floor and we all we just fall in, enjoy your day.
This one is about my Spiritual Husband, and as I type I my eyes are welling up with tears. The last story below reminds me some what of “Him” and there are times when I sit and go off into wonderment about him, trust me if he was my husband once upon a time then he was “someone to be admired and respected” The wicked baby father may have been horrible to me, but he was a Street King wid nuff respect given to him anywhere he went. I am attracted to powerful and confident men and they seem to be attracted to me as well, but with some as with the wicked one his ego got in the way.
Several years ago, while I lived with someone, “He” would come and visit me, at nights while I slept. His presence was always loving, and peaceful to me and I felt the most magnificent love when I am around him in my dreams , so much so that when I wake up, I would cry for days while the present lover held and comforted me as I lamented about missing “him” in my dreams. I have yet to find that feeling of love in its purest form with anyone else in my life, and I suspect that it is not in our realm!
I have never seen his face fully, but he is a tall, slender, sexy man, always dressed neatly in white and black and there are times when he is with me in a dream or vision and He is beside me but I cannot see him, and another time when he comes and stays the whole night with me, and we talk (I never remember of what upon waking), we cook together and I wash clothes and he helps me to hang them and we just are together and it feels good, where we are in the dream is also calm and peaceful and he would even hug me and I would hug him back and our embrace would be like that for a while, just us hugging each other in silence with warmth and comfort of each other’s arms, no implication of sex or even desire, just a warm solid embrace which I begged in my head for it not to end as I stand there locked with him. In my real life I am loving, extremely so, I like to touch and feel and play, joke and laugh and have fun, if you are ever in my presence you will never be sad, my children loves me for that, I am silly when it comes to having a good time, and all around me loves me for that, I have even flat lined (extreme laughter) some Africans who speak no English with my jocular personality and comedic actions.
In any relationship I am in the man had never in his life ever felt love like what I give to him, It is complete love, total care, without words, it is expressive love through action and devotion, a dedication unchallenged, a possessiveness (from me) which is embraced (by him), until him say or do something to kill it, then that’s it for me, because once I am done I am done! In my dreams there has never been any sexual contact with him, my spiritual husband. Where ever I am in the world he is there, I know I am aware of him, he looks after me and care for me and love me unconditionally (I am at moment crying and barely see to type, just ah bawl suh like mi ah eediat!).
I am a medium and when this gift was handed down to me a particular man became my main guide and he even told me his name, he while he lived was a spiritualist a very good one, he speaks in parables and laughs a lot when he come down, everybody who meets him when he speaks through me loves him and when I have spiritual sessions and fifty may spirits pass through my body, people who are in attendance of the session while they may thankful of the messages brought by other spirits, they are never totally satisfied until he shows up. I believe he is my husband!
I want to live here on earth for a very long time, no I am not afraid of death because I will never die, but I want to be in my physical body alive and healthy for as long as I can for my children, for them! We only have each other, and I cannot see me leaving them in physical form for now, I have so much to teach them and I want to see them through, I must!
It is comforting to me that he awaits for me in another realm, and I only pray that I do what I need to do here so that I am worthy to live in his realm when the time is right and the mist have rolled away which will not be for now. This is one of the reasons I get up everyday and sit in front of the computer and blog, hoping to share of me that which may help another, or someone can learn something from my postings, so that I am fulfilling a purpose, a divine purpose, at least one of them.
Bí ọkọ̀ kan ó re Ejínrín (a town), ẹgbẹgbẹ̀rún ẹ̀ á lọ. /
If one bus won’t go to Ejinrin, thousands others will go. Yoruba Proverb!
[No one (and nothing) is irreplaceable; alternatives always exist]
All religions are valid as long as it teaches peace and love….Obara Meji!
There are no disappointments in life, only lessons learned….Obara Meji!
|Old Mommy/New Mommy|
I’m not sure about reincarnation, but I’ve been interested in it for several years for one reason: My daughter.
When she was little, she always seemed like an “old soul.” In fact, she barely seemed a child. Late in her second year, she started talking about “Old Mommy.”
She told me that Old Mommy had lots of kids. Old Mommy had pushed her into a hole and she never woke up after that. Most commonly her comments about Old Mommy would come up when I would do something unextraordinary, like hugging her at night when she was scared. “You are much nicer than Old Mommy,” she would say.
She told me that Old Mommy was very mean to her and that she was scared of her. She said she came to me so that she could have a good mommy.
The one thing that stood out in my mind was a comment she made when she was three. I had dressed her and gone into the living room. I sensed her presence. She looked me and said, “Thank you for my clothes. When I lived with Old Mommy my clothes were raggy and there were always holes in my socks.” What was SO odd about that was not just the knowledge of things like airplanes or other people. It was the extreme gratitude for little things at an age where a show of gratitude is virtually non-existent unless it is forced. What three year old knows the discomfort of holes in their socks?
She is eight now and has no memory of Old Mommy. She spoke of Old Mommy regularly and I should have paid more attention. I wish I had asked questions. But I didn’t want to unintentionally lead her. I am willing to learn and I want to know what exactly happened to my daughter.
|Killed During a Robbery|
|Following is my reincarnation dream. I’m well-dressed, on a horse, wearing a top hat and a coat with tails. My female riding partner is wearing a blue mob cap and a blue dress. We’re laughing while riding through what I believe were large wealthy estates with tall hedges. I feel bad that we are riding through other people’s yards, but she is leading and I am eager to please her.
The strange thing was I knew this woman was a part of me, like we were married, but I had no idea who she was. I was taller in the dream, about 6′, and my wife or girlfriend was about 5’8”. it seems like late 18th century in the U.K., but I suppose it could also be colonial America.
The dream goes from frolic to nightmare when she starts riding towards town. It’s a dangerous place that we knew we should stay out of. I had to follow her, though, to see to her safety, but I was upset she was riding there. I couldn’t keep up with her and eventually lost her in town. I looked for her through these drab streets for what seemed like hours. The feeling was desperate and scary.
Then I’m being surrounded by some bad men. The man in front of me with dirty blond hair and cap is backing up my horse into an alley and I know my life is in peril. I continue to be backed up and then…nothing. I assume I got hit in the head by someone behind me and died.
I think I was in my late 20’s. I guess I was killed for my horse, clothes and the money in my pockets. Someday if I could afford It I’d love to have a past life regression reading because I’m sure this man’s identity is recorded somewhere and maybe I could get a name.
|A Slave In the South|
I was in the Peace Corps and served in Cameroon, West Africa. During Peace Corps training in Quebec, being an artist, I occasionally helped the trainers by drawing illustrations about what they were teaching us. They commented more than once about how I automatically knew what African scenes looked like. When I arrived in Cameroon, it flashed in my mind as we were in the air over Douala, where I would end up being posted, “He’s down there.”
A couple of months later, when working in that city, I met a young African to whom I became close. He seemed familiar to me. Many years later I had a reading by a psychic who told me I had been a slave named Cornelia “somewhere in the South in the early 1800s” and that I had been brought over pregnant, then lost the baby in what they called a “hospital” (which was a dirty building at the time).
During this present life, though I am white and now in my 60s, I have always loved black music, rarely ever white music unless it is black inspired (such as swing). In my earlier days (I have since had a hip replacement which has slowed this down), I was, if I say so myself, a very good dancer. I have had total strangers, including black men, come up to me on the dance floor to tell me how well I could dance. At a Cameroonian wedding in Philadelphia, one told me I danced “like a Douala girl.”
I believe that the man I met in Africa in this lifetime was, in that earlier lifetime, either the father of the baby I lost or possibly my father or brother. I need to add that when I watched Roots years ago or if I watch any show with slaves or bigoted Southerners in it, I get all riled up, even to the point of yelling at the TV!
|I Watched Myself Being Buried|
|Years ago, when I was about 13 or 14, I was casually watching a ghost-hunter show as I was eating dinner.
The episode took place in a stone castle, either in England or Ireland. The crew went into a cellar where there were huge, dusty pots/vases. I suddenly felt ice cold, and tears came into my eyes for no reason. It’s happening again just as I type this…like a profound sadness; a hopelessness.
The view then panned over to the staircase. I knew that staircase. I knew that I had spent years watching it in the dark, waiting for someone to come down and discover me. And I knew that I had been buried under one of the vases, in the dirt floor. I knew that I had been a young woman (as I am now), and I knew that I had at least one child, probably two. I can’t quite recall their names, or mine. I also knew that I had been having an affair with a cruel man, and that he had killed me and left me there alone.
I believe that my head was bashed into a wall as he held my hair, and I can somewhat remember leaving my body and watching him strangle me and then bury me. These memories came later, but they feel like truths. I suppose I remember being a ghost more than my actual past life – the emotions were so very intense. I didn’t want to “move on” because I never knew what happened to my children. Obviously, at some point, I left. Perhaps someone helped me, or perhaps I saw the spirits of my children once they themselves passed on. I guess I’ll never really know.
I do know that I’m crying again, right now, and I haven’t even seen an image of this cellar in years. But the vision of it is firmly imprinted in my mind; all I have to do is recall it, and I feel again as if I am desperately waiting for something, after having been murdered and forgotten.
Of course, all of this really freaked me out, because I had never even thought about the concept of past lives – I was just trying to eat my dinner! This whole experience was 10 years ago – I’m 24 now – but it still really affects me. I have poured over every episode of the ghost shows I used to watch, but can’t find the one I watched that day.
I have tried to doubt myself, to think that maybe I was just imagining everything, but never before have I suddenly and without a doubt known things to be true. The first thing that came to my mind was “My body is there, under that vase.” Nothing like that has ever happened to me, before or since.
|I Was My Own Grandma|
|My mother had three kids before I was born, two older daughters and a son. For many years, she wanted one more child but the doctors told her it wouldn’t be possible. She had told my dad’s mother, who was living with the family, just how badly she had wanted one more child.
Anyway, my grandmother passed away in November, 1972. My mother soon got pregnant with me. I was born in March, 1974. When I was around three years old, in 1977, we took a short cut through the cemetery that was right behind our house. We were approaching my grandmother’s tombstone when I suddenly blurted out, “There is where I sleep,” pointing in the direction of my grandmother’s grave. That totally freaked everyone out. As we approached closer, I pointed again, “There, that is where i sleep.” Sure enough, I was pointing to my grandmother’s grave. My mum just about fainted.
She decided to test me a short time later with things around the house. For example, she used several knitted sweaters. I would point out the ones my grandmother had knitted, stating that “I” had done them. My mother tried to trick me and brought out a sweater my mother had actually knitted, asking if I had knitted this as well. I said, “NO, you did.” She continued to try and trick me. I insisted that “NO, YOU knitted that one, because I remember.”
My mother and siblings told me of this experience. I have vague memories of being scared of the hallway, too. I would always dash past it when it was time for bed. My grandmother had passed away in that hallway, before I was born.
|A Man Named Walter|
|Three years ago, when I was fifteen years old, I was in my backyard picking up sticks for my father. When I turned towards my house, I saw a man who was transparent around the edges, standing in my boiler room window. When I saw him, I was shocked but not scared; most of all I felt a strange sense of relief.
The word “Finally” popped into my mind and I felt as if the man I was staring at had waited a long time to see me. Eventually he turned around and walked out of the room. Immediately I ran inside and informed my father. He searched the house and found no one or any signs of forced entry.
After that, random things would happen every few months. A man opened my bedroom door one night and peeked his head in. I thought it was my father, so I told him goodnight and that I loved him. It was so dark that he was just a shadow, but he nodded his head and closed my door. I said something to my father about it the next day, and my dad told me he did not check on me the night before.
Things have moved and I’ve seen shadows. I’ve caught a few electronic recordings with this man’s voice, and in one of them he whispered his name: it was Walter.
I’m 18 now and over the course of three years, I have developed a sort of bond with Walter. I feel like I know him in a way. He has always seemed familiar to me. And one night, I think I found the answer as to why he is around.
My sister, two of her friends and I decided to do an Ouija board in my front yard. And Walter came through for 45 minutes. We figured out early on that Walter seemed strangely connected to me, and we realized that he only answered the questions I asked.
Walter explained to me that I lived another life before this one, one that he was involved in. He said my name was Rose and we met in 1912. I was his nurse in a war. He told me that we fell in love with each other quite quickly. He said I was very beautiful, with long red hair. I found this bit kind of funny, because ever since I was a little girl I have loved red hair. He then revealed that I died and a few years later, he died as well, though he did not reveal how. Walter told me he’d been searching for me for a very long time and that he finally found me when I was fifteen years old. I was fifteen when I saw him in my boiler room.
I asked him why it was that I am now living again and he isn’t, to which he responded “Fate.”