Journey of Souls


… in a past life. Though I had a dress like the one she’s wearing in that photo of the subway ruffling her. Except it was navy with white polka-dots. And it never wafted up on me though it attracted a bit of attention.

And I only just recalled that right this minute, which is why a post from me on my past lives is such an oxymoron. I can barely recall events that happened in my current life.

Though I defy most people to remember any piece of their college wardrobe twenty-five years after the fact.

I have a friend whose past lives currently beckon.

She’s writing a book with a reincarnation theme and in her research found Michael Newton’s Journey of Souls. This led her to past lives regression therapist and to the idea of virtual time traveling via hypnosis herself.

My self’s past incarnations aren’t that personally alluring. I know I’ve existed before, but I don’t need to know the details. They are for the times when I am “offline” and have the leisure and guidance to reflect. When I am engaged in a life, I am afraid that knowledge of my former selves might distract me or mislead me.

You wouldn’t find me lurking in the pages of history at any rate. I was never notable. I was just a girl. Always a girl though why that sticks out, I can’t say. Never a queen or adventuress or the woman behind the man as most people with claims to past lives seem to always be.

Being famous in a past life, in my opinion, is a sign that one needed remediation of some kind. Why else throw a soul into high profile, larger than life should be situations that require so much support staff? I think the bigger your soul-tourage; the more lessons you might have not mastered the last time around. Something to ponder the next time you’re envying Lady Gaga or Prince William.

Abby is in consultation with the regression therapist. You can’t just stare at an open flame and 1, 2, 3, find yourself at Hampton Court celebrating Mid-summer’s Night with the Tudor court. It’s a bit more work than that. And now you know.

Newton’s book struck a chord and clarified some of my thoughts on the subject of living and re-living. I didn’t pick the book up looking for that however. I was looking for a more plausible afterlife in the wake of my first husband’s death.

Curlicue clouds and fluffy robes? I had a difficult time imaging my flannel-clad, shaggy bearded man in wings and a white starched choir robe.

What I found was not heaven in my reading. I’m from Iowa, which is not heaven either but a portal,* so I know of what I speak**.

Newton talks of soul groups, debriefings, and lesson/life plans. It’s work. Not the alluring stuff of the salvation vs damnation lottery.

I am following Abby’s adventure with interest however. I’ll keep you apprised.

*FYI/dumb fact: My cousin’s daughter’s in-laws own part of the Field of Dreams.

** Over the course of 12 years of Catholic school, the subject of heaven comes up a lot.


“So”, my husband asks, “do all American towns and cities have an east side where they keep all the trashy people?”

 

This came on our return drive from southern Illinois and our honeymoon. We had been though East Peoria and East Galesburg. The first place was a pee break at a 66 station near the airport where people had no sense of personal space while queuing up and couldn’t seem to walk off without lotto tickets or smokes. The latter was home to one of the largest mobile home parks I had yet to see on the trip, and at one point I was beginning to wonder if everyone south of Springfield lived in easily transportable abodes. Illinois appears to have been settled by people who believe highly combustible funnel cloud magnets should always gather in large numbers out on the open prairie.

 

Rob’s Iowan experiences include an eastside of Des Moines and an East Dubuque, have colored his perceptions. But honestly, east is not often prime real estate. Why do you think God sent Adam and Ever to live there? It’s home to American Idol voters and the idea that everything one will ever need out of life can be found within a 2 mile radius of Grandma’s house because she is the only one with a permanent address. It’s that bit of ground that we all want to flee as teens but that too many of us end up being buried under.

 

I have been reading Journey of Souls by Michael Newton, a book about the multiple lives of our souls (aka reincarnation). It says that we choose our lives in order to learn and grow. But who would choose to be the mullet do’d cashier at the corner gas mart or the guy purchasing two 12 packs of Milwaukee’s Best with a couple cans of Copenhagen at 10:30 on a Friday morning? Are these learning opportunities? Or destinies gone horribly wrong?

 

Much of what we saw, outside the national park, was poverty. The neighborhoods on the east side of Murphysboro were filled with worn homes often blockaded from the rest of the street by the kind of junk that even Oprah intervention people throw away. In a lot of ways these streets were like the old Walmart joke – a little piece of Arkansas every where you go – because if I hadn’t known I was in Illinois I would have thought I was back in the area surrounding Devils Den State Park near Fayetteville. Murphysboro, Carbondale, Marion. Towns that bled into each other, held together by strip malls and car lots. The differences between classes of the people who lived there plainly evident in the vehicles and the clothes and the conditions of the homes. Makes you wonder what kind of  assignments God was handing out that could have resulted in any of this or what makes us chose such lessons.