A past life explains the unexplainable in this life. It is a strong thread that runs through the personality and is unaccounted for by circumstance or environment. A past life is a kind of unremembered soul memory that pushes for expression in this time and place. I can best explain by pulling examples from the lives of my children.
My daughter, Kristen, walked next to me as a child of six and pointed at other women with children. Mama, I don’t want white babies when I grow up. My children should have darker skin. Those babies are not right.
She came to me in junior high school asking to go to Greece, with an urgency that got my attention. Her request seemed so important that I went to school to inquire about an exchange program, and found a possibility for her to visit in high school. When I told her, she threw herself across the bed and wept big bitter tears. I thought you would be pleased, I said. No, Mom, I can’t wait that long to ‘go back.’
Kristen is good at manifestation. She attracted a Greek family within the year, who invited her to travel with them to Athens for the summer. She came back more determined than ever. I need to live where people gather outside around long tables, drink wine and have in-your-face discussions. She saved the money she made as a waitress and went back again after high school. She learned the language, married a Greek man and lived there for three years. She wrote letters from the island of Paros that said, I have never felt so alive, or healthy. It is like coming home.
One of my favorite memories of my son, Clayton, is from Seattle. He and I were shopping near Pike Place Market when break-dancing was all the rage. We saw a group of young black boys performing near the waterfront and went over to check it out. A crowd gathered to watch as the young men formed a line, waiting to do their athletic spins, flips and Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. When I turned to comment, my son was missing. At ten years old, I was worried, until I saw him smiling back at me from the performer’s line. The dancers were as surprised as I was, to see him holding his own on their cardboard stage. That is where his past life spirit believed he belonged, street dancing with his black brothers.
As a little boy, he drew pictures of himself with dark skin. In high school, his African friend, Brian, made a bedroom in his walk-in closet, sharing secrets and stories like brothers. As a man of 38, he makes his Los Angeles home in the earthy grit of the hood.
How else can you explain this white mans perception of himself, if it is not a door from another lifetime that did not fully close?
We all have these mysterious threads that manifest in our lives as gifts we carry, desires to be realized or the curse that keeps us bound beyond reason. Looking at these threads, whatever you choose to call them, can bring insight and liberation.