Over the centuries many religions and even whole civilisations believed in the doctrine of Karma and reincarnation.
Perhaps the people living in the western world today and possibly for the last two thousand years have forgotten our heritage of the spiritual worlds and focused all their energies developing the technology and resources of our material universe.
Of course as quantum physics evolves even more into our consciousness we will return to the concept that all mankind are spiritual beings incarnated into a physical body and not just flesh and blood alone.
Many have objected to these concepts—saying—“Well, if we have lived before why can’t we remember those lives?” The truth is—many people do and there are thousands of documented cases investigated by interested parties, who were able to verify details given mostly by children up to the age of five or six. After that time the shutters on that window close and the child focuses upon the day to day events of this world and their own biography.
We forget the one thing most important for every soul coming into this realm. They come with a clean slate. No one knows or remembers who they were previously. I call this “the great gift of forgetfulness.” If we and others remembered our past lives we would never be given that opportunity to undo the evil we created, balance the karmic books and evolve towards our future potential, using our own free will.
Every one of us is totally unique in this universe. We all may have similar experiences, but no two experiences are the same. Our life experiences and attitudes determine how that experience is played out and assimilated into the golden garment we weave during each lifetime. We call it the soul or maybe it is even a totally new body we are creating for us to inhabit at a future time.
I feel our lives are of infinite possibility and as we have free will it is our choice as to the road we follow or create. It has been said “there are many roads which lead to Rome” but I feel there are no restrictions as to the path we choose or hack out of the jungle of adversity that may be blocking the way for us. That said, I hope the reader will be interested enough to hear about a journey I embarked upon over three score and ten years ago.
Born in a small private hospital in a western Sydney suburb I recall those first five years as perhaps the happiest of my life, despite whooping cough and other events.
Everything was an adventure—the train rides to the city with my mother, the ferry rides across the harbour to Manly for swimming and visits to the zoo at Mosman.
All stand out in my memory as wondrous, fantastic events. It was not just the outer world that was a constant joy and adventure for me. I also lived in a realm of dreaming at night. These dreams were both scary and sublime.
The sublime ones featured many foreign lands where I would fly over wondrous landscapes, watching people on the ground going about their lives. These dreams were often in serial form also! The bedroom when dark would be full of people sitting around chatting or knitting, etc. Every period of history was represented by the garments they were wearing. I never mentioned these phenomena to anyone as I felt, perhaps, they also may have experienced such events.
One evening a ‘skeleton’ shaped visitor arrived and upset all my so called invisible guests. Much agitation and yelling ensued, so I took control of the event and ordered them all to leave. They left and never returned.
It was as though something inside of me made a decision to close that door to other dimensions and to focus on this realm alone.
I did continue to dream in episodes until I was about six or seven. I would return from school to say to my mum that I wanted to go to bed to find out what happened in the next episode of my dreams. Of course she was always chastising me about having too much ‘imagination’ and refused to let me go to bed.
By the time I was eight all these wonderful dreams stopped. I was always doing shopping after school and often preparing dinner for my siblings and Grandmother and, of course, parents, as mum suffered from frightful migraines and would be confined to bed for several days at a time.
My sisters being older were either working or at high school so unable to do these chores. One learns very quickly to adapt to life’s obligations.
There was one dream that occurred repeatedly over many years, well into my thirties. It has had some interesting manifestations over the years.
It began with a large gathering of people enjoying a party with dancing in a large room of an early 1900’s style home. The rug had been rolled back, revealing a parquet floor in herringbone pattern.
The room had gently curved walls with large French doors opening on to a terrace which was lit by burning flares on pillars leading to a pool. Most people had stopped dancing and the band had, I presumed, gone for a break, when a group of men in masks (I think of animal heads in a rubber material) burst into the room and started firing machine guns.
I jumped behind a curtain on the door and everything went blank. The guests were attired in the fashions of the early 1920’s, so I am assuming that was the time it happened. At that time, I seem to be a young boy of about twelve years old.
This dream when I was very young caused me much distress and I would wake up screaming. Later I started to ‘observe’ about features in the dream and got more and more detached from the trauma of it all.
The local cinema would often show black and white ‘shorts’ (as we called them) prior to the main feature at the Saturday afternoon matinee.
When I was about eight or nine they showed a documentary of the ‘hidden’ side of the city of Philadelphia in the USA.
As the camera wound its way down a street, highlighting the grand mansions tucked away behind high walls and hedges I ‘knew’ what was going to be shown in the next street, then the next street and so on. All was as I ‘remembered’. I began to cry as I felt I was ‘home’. In my mind’s eye, I can still see those streets to this day.
My feeling later on was that the house I died in all those years ago must have been in Philadelphia as I felt such a connection to it. Many years later however I was told by two psychics that in fact the home was in New York City almost around the site of the World Trade Centre and ‘Little Italy’ (as it is known) not far away.
Both explained to me the bullet had been meant for my father but had taken me instead. In fact the bullet had taken both of us. My father had been involved with ‘bootlegging’ during the Prohibition era and had fallen foul of the Mafia. It seems my mother had left him earlier and moved to Philadelphia to where her parents lived. She did not like my father’s Mafia links. Hence my connection with that city.
Apparently Italian, only, was spoken in the New York home and when I was in my teens (in this life) I started evening classes in Italian. I did not know why but just felt I needed to speak the language!
The lessons I learned in that brief life have held me in good stead many times when I could foresee unwanted consequences down the track. I would intuitively know to change direction. I have avoided assiduously, violent movies involving similar scenarios.
taught myself to read when I was four by looking at the printed words in a book as my sisters read to me. By five I was able to read anything I wished. So opened another door to that glorious inner world of imagination. No wonder the Nazis burned books. They hated free thinkers.
CHAPTER TWO
It has been said, “what comes out of our mouths defines us much more than what goes in.” There is no doubt in my mind “we are what we think”. An incident which took place when I was five years old altered so much in my life from then on.
My mother was pregnant with my brother — it was 1948. I had never seen my father drunk or abusive up to that time but one evening he came home from work and was very violent towards my mother to the point of striking her, causing her to fall on the kitchen floor. I turned to him and said, “if you ever hit my mother again I