Don't keep quiet.

Few things upset me more than seeing a mistreated woman denying the facts or rejecting the help of other people. (Curiously, I always like to remind people men can also be victims, not only women, but that's a different story). The other day I was watching this TV show where Spanish policemen are in action, and they attended a case of this type. There was a female social worker with them, trying to convince the victim to tell them what had happened. She had called the police and she had been beaten, but now she was saying her husband wasn't home and everything was fine. They knew she was lying, but they couldn't enter the house without her permission, and of course nothing can be done if she doesn't want to report the mistreatment.

I was sitting there in the sofa, getting emotional, wishing that the woman talked, knowing I would have given anything for having that kind of help back then. Thinking: "You don't know how damn lucky you are having those police officers at your door. Talk!" Just a word and you can be out of that nightmare... not like things were for me.

Well, last Sunday we had a similar "show", but this time live, at our next door. We heard our neighbors (who happen to be British) were having an argument. That's not unusual, but this time it was being stronger. There was a slam of the front door, her daughter was crying, the wife shouting he was an adult and he shouldn't be behaving like that. It looked like he had kicked them out. Some time later my boyfriend said the police was in our landing, talking to our neighbors. The woman must have called them, her husband didn't deny he had taken her by the throat and the hair, and we heard a police officer saying she had some bruisings and she had been hit in the head. An ambulance was called too. They finally arrested the man, who was trying to explain he is desperate, as he's an English teacher but he can't find a job here. He had to go with them in a car police (thankfully they didn't use handcuffs). Next morning I saw she took a taxi and left with a few suitcases.

All this has made me realize how common this kind of violence is still today, and how easily ignored. It has also reminded me of my own aunt, my dad's youngest sister, and it makes me wonder about how our memory works when we are kids. I was quite young then, maybe 7 or 8. She was the only family from my dad's side living in Madrid, and she had two main issues: being sterile and being married with an abuser husband. When she had problems with him, she could only resort to my dad (and of course my mum). I only have blurred memories, but somehow I know it was something that "resonated" with me, it's one of those instants in childhood when something catches your attention but you don't have a clue why. I remember I liked my aunt's husband. Uncle C was good-looking and always smelled nice. So, hearing my parents on the phone, or maybe discussing in the car while my brothers and I were in the rear sits, talking about what my aunt had said, how "he had dragged her along the hallway pulling her by the hair" sounded quite unreal. And it was scary. As far as I know, they didn't get separated, and she loved him... though the tears and the circles under her eyes told a different thing (and also her own words months later, though I always knew through my parents).

One day he died in a car crash. He was alone. I remember my aunt cried for him. I want to think deep inside she was as relieved as anyone else in the family (though of course you couldn't say that aloud). Luckily, she moved to the south with the rest of her siblings and she eventually found a new man, this time a good one.

It's sad I barely see her now. Anyway, I doubt she would want to talk about all that. But I wish so much I could sit with her and tell her: "You know, I understand you now, I perfectly know what you went through, I know how it feels, how alone and impotent you can feel".

The greatest thing of all is she's always been the merriest woman in all the family, before and after those events. And the most supportive for all of them. She always was my favorite aunt. She must be such a great soul.

Death by hanging.

I have a friend who thinks she died by hanging in a past life, though she has no specific memories. She described the feelings previous to this kind of death so perfectly, I have no doubts she has had the experience. Who knows, maybe it wasn’t by hanging, or maybe the circumstances surrounding that death are different from what she suspects. But I’m certain she’s been there, waiting to die, feeling how your whole world sinks, trying to accept the inevitable end, trying to control the fear, the anger, the loneliness... There are things you can only understand if you have lived through them.

I advised her to listen to a song by Arena called “Tantalus”. This song triggered me when I was just a beginner remembering past lives. Coincidentally I discovered this band by the same time, and somehow their music became my past life anthem, as they have so many lyrics to which I can relate so much. “Tantalus” is only one of them. There’s another one called “The hanging tree” that also stirs some feelings, especially if you have been hanged twice... as in my case.

I think I must have told somewhere how these two lives that ended in such a similar way, were completely different, as were the feelings associated to each of them. When I found out I had been hanged a second time, I just couldn’t believe it, for a while. But the reasons were not the same. In the second one I had hopes I would be spared, after all I was a woman, and I had managed to be declared “not guilty” before. Something went wrong this time, I didn’t understand what was happening, and of course I was convinced I didn’t deserve to die that way. In the first one, I knew I was condemning myself doing what I did. It wasn’t unexpected, but even so, the weight of the emotions during the last days is possibly stronger. As I was telling my friend, even today there are times I can’t shake off those feelings. There was guilt, but also a lot of grief and desperation. I had nothing to lose, and I was tired of fighting. I think I barely talked when they asked me to say something in my defense, as I knew it would be useless. They had already decided my condemnation, they had been after me for a long time. They only needed the final excuse. And I gave it to them. Even now, as I write these words, tears fill my eyes, still wondering what if I had made different decisions, what if I had chosen another path.

I often fantasize about how it feels to be hanged, how agonizing it must be to be deprived of the ability to breathe, until you just lose consciousness and it’s all over. I don’t have those memories. I do remember the liberation that comes after death. Sometimes it’s funny, to see how people who kill think they’re punishing you, when more often than not they are doing you a favour.

TANTALUS

Standing in water, but dying of thirst 

This is my thanks and this is my curse 

Try as I might, the fruit on the trees 

All remain beyond reach, beyond wishes 

or pleading for one last chance 

Waiting for time to pass me by 

Waiting for freedom, waiting to die

Where can I go, in a world without hope?

There is never a place 

for a soul that has broken so 

Trust in no one 

Trust in no one 

Linking the chains that weigh down your reason 

Nothing to blame, but the actions you choose 

Driven insane by the conscience of treason

Running in vein from a life of abuse 

The closer I get the further I am 

The journey I make is the course of the damned

The distance I go is no distance at all 

And I climb to the sky but find myself falling so 

Trust in no one 

Trust in no one 

Quench my thirst - Fill my heart 

Hold my hand - stay close by 

Talk to me - Don’t leave me crying here 

Standing in water, yet dying of thirst 

This is my thanks and this is my curse 

Empty forgiveness for old indiscretions 

And such condemnation for just one transgression 

Find me now - Set me free 

Find me now - Set me free 

Waiting for time to pass me by 

Waiting for freedom, waiting to die 

Why do you smile at my timeless ordeal here 

And why do you laugh at my hopeless appeal for your mercy? 

Tear away the chains - Free me now

No one else to blame - Let me go

Tear away the chains - Free me now

Driving me insane - Let me go

Tear away the chains - Free me now

No one else to blame - Let me go

Tear away the chains - Free me now

Driving me insane - Let me go  

                                                 

Drugs.

I’ve been avoiding this matter for days. After a hectic short period in my life, where I couldn’t do much past life work, apart from the book on children who remember I was writing, I have plenty of leisure time to spare again. I guess one day I’ll tell what happened with my great “premonition dream” and the “wonderful” job I got and quit, but right now I need to talk about serious stuff... really serious stuff.

I’ve talked about drugs before in this blog, but when past life scenes repeat again and again, it usually means there’s something that still needs to be processed. And this is the only place I can do it safely. Drugs are a very delicate matter, and also have a morbid component that causes attraction and revulsion at the same time. But most of all... it brings me to the darkest side of human nature, to the darkest side of... myself. Talking about it is always hard. But keeping silent doesn’t help.

June has always been a strange month for me. It’s not as tough as May, but it often makes me feel uneasy, not completely down, but unbalanced... as if I’m walking on a tight rope knowing I’m going to fall into the abyss. These words have reminded me of this Supertramp album cover that reflects so well what I mean:

Coincidence or not, the other day I was feeling weird like that. I meditated, and the images I got were very similar to what I described in that other entry I’ve mentioned above. I was in my old and dark flat in Köln, in the 60’s. Car lights shine through the window and reflect on the walls. I see the coffee table in the living room, the threadbare sofa where I sleep, rather than in the bed (actually, I think I don’t remember any bed, save the hotel beds where I took the women). I see the cigarettes and matchbox on the table. Though I don’t have a clear image, I know there are other drugs too (the flash of a spoon). I feel the anxiety, the inner rage, the hole in my heart. But I can’t understand why.

I don’t remember much of my college years, though I have the inkling my friends were some kind of extremists who loved to protest against our Government, and I even suspect we considered to take some kind of violent action at some point. I don’t know if I ever got involved in that. I only know I was very angry. And though I had a few personal problems, they were not enough to create so much anger inside me. And my only wish was to forget all that darkness, to escape the emptiness of my soul.

It wasn’t the first time I saw how I did it, but it was the first time I saw myself in front of the bathroom mirror, bare-chested, syringe in hand, ready to inject the heroin. “It’s easy”, were the words coming to my mind. Looking at yourself in the mirror is like doing it to another person, so the first times it was easier that way. There was less pain, more distance. It was easier to control the trembling of the hands. And the relief was immediate. Dreamless sleep and sweet oblivion... that was all I needed. Death was all I wanted.

I felt like shit afterwards, of course. Not because the effect of the drug (or not only because of that), but disappointed with myself, perfectly knowing I might not wake up again one of those nights... and not caring at all.

Now, looking in retrospect, I can understand. I see Katrina inside the man I was in the 60’s. I see the same desires of killing myself, of ending so much suffering. It was as if I had been in Hell before, and that Hell still attracted me strongly, like a giant magnet stealing me the will to live. Coincidence or not, my age then was very close to the age Katrina was when she died. It’s the same age I was when depression reached its maximum peak in this life. The same old patterns were repeating again.

The positive part of all this is somehow I decided “No more” and left all that darkness behind, to make something good of my days and become a real man who fought for freedom and justice. I still wonder how I made it, but I guess this proves light and darkness always go hand in hand.

In the zone.

Some people use this expression to describe that “state of mind” where you can easily access past life memories, like many children do when they are riding in a car, having a bath or getting ready to go to sleep. But adults can experience it too. It can happen when you are doing a task that requires a bit of mental concentration but not a lot of effort, like ironing for example, so that your mind can wander. Other times you just get triggered by something you saw or a slight emotion, and if it strikes hard, it can send you straight to past life mood. I would say this is a step further than being “in the zone”, as past life mood is also a deep emotional “state of mind” where past and present seem to merge into one. You feel as if you are living in two worlds (or more) at the same time, and you don’t know how long it will last. Sometimes it is really difficult to shake it off.

Last week the death of a Spanish soldier on duty bothered me a lot, but it stayed in the background as there were other things occupying my mind. But when last Friday I watched his funeral on the news, I found out his wife was pregnant and due to give birth, and while I saw her there, completely devastated, I felt like I was being stabbed in my heart. I felt the wound, the shift of energy in my whole body, like a bolt of lightning. I had just had lunch and I was getting ready to go out, but I couldn’t. Even before remembering past lives I always knew I was very sensitive to this kind of events. I knew it was strange as I had never had any relation with the military, but back then reincarnation was very far from my mind. Now, that I do know I was involved in the military, but in other lives, the intensity of the reaction still felt strange. “How many more?”, I thought. That is my question now, and that was my question then, when I was a British Navy officer, tired of fighting in wars and watching young men falling one after the other. I have stopped wondering if this means there are still past life emotions that need to be “healed”. I don’t think there is anything to be healed. The only thing that remains is the same soul that lived through war and the loss of so many fellow soldiers, the same disappointed captain who witnessed how powerful, well-dressed men, safe in their offices, gave orders and sent young, innocent people, to fight and die for them, never caring how many families would be broken or how many fatherless boys would have to grow up alone. Feeling sad and angry, I had to sit down on the floor of my bedroom for a while, with tears in my eyes, suddenly remembering my own death in a war ship, my last thoughts about my wife and child I was leaving behind. It is long since I suspect I haven’t remembered everything. From the historical data I have, I know I was quite aware my end could be a bitter end, my job was quite dangerous after all, and I had even written my will a few years before. But I am sure my death wasn’t as peaceful as it seems. It wasn’t just my family, there must have been a lot of bitterness towards my superiors and the way things went those last days of battle. My actions may have been labeled as heroic, but the truth is a lot of those men dying with me were my men. My dear men.

Wars keep happening, and stupid deaths too. I don’t know who is to blame, I don’t even know there has to be someone to blame. We are all human beings, and we are here to live as human beings. We are killed today. But tomorrow we will kill. And no, nothing guarantees we won’t. The thing is that funeral sparked a flame on me and I couldn’t shake off the past life mood in a few hours. I grabbed my bags (heavy with stuff for my new home) and while I was walking to catch the bus I was feeling like the young sailor filled with dreams I was over two centuries ago. I could almost see the wet, cobblestoned ground under my feet as I was heading for the harbor, to get aboard a ship, not knowing what kind of adventures were waiting for me or when I would be back home again. The lock of hair falling over my eye felt like my old blonde curls caressing my cheeks when I was a young English man longing to be at sea and feel the breeze on my skin. I almost could hear the sound of the wooden planks my shoes would make as soon as I walked up to the deck.

Then past life memories from my last life, during the Cold War in West Germany, came to my mind too, as I had been wondering about my strong feelings about the Wall and my family’s past for days. It is weird, overwhelming, but at the same time so incredible, and wonderful, to feel nothing is past, to feel you are still the same person, the same soul, but living in a different country and in different circumstances. Nothing is lost. Not me, nor the other souls you met. There is continuity in life, there is always hope. You write to people who live in the other side of the Atlantic, but you still feel them so close, so close in your heart. Even people you don’t know like that Spanish soldier who lost his life, his wife and baby in a foreign country, you also feel them in your heart, as they are all brothers and sisters.

Sometimes I wish I could be always “in the zone”. It makes me feel so alive, it makes me feel I am so much more than what I apparently am now, much more than the rest of people can see. And it reminds me: separateness is an illusion. If it is true I am doing kind of a course on attachment/detachment, that would be my conclusion in my final thesis.
         

More rubble.

It is curious how apparently meaningless phrases can reach you so deep and make you understand past life experiences. I often say that my life as Katrina during WWII taught me a lot about strength... but when I say this there’s another part of me saying: “Come on, aren’t you being too benevolent? She couldn’t get over her boyfriend’s death, she couldn’t fight and stand war, she ended up cowardly committing suicide...” Yesterday, while I was watching the Spanish TV show “Big brother”, where a water-polo player who became a drug addict and almost destroyed all his family and his life, helps violent teenagers, he said: “You see, the one who carries a lot of pain inside but doesn’t use violence is the strongest”. Those words brought tears to my eyes. I’ve always said the weak only seem weak in the outside. I was a tiny woman, alone in the world, unable to make my own decisions due to life’s circumstances. I was caught in a war and recruited to fight for another country. A certain officer abused his power. My only friend died. I knew I could have killed them all, or at least try... I was up to defend myself if only he dared touch me again, no matter if I ended up killed or imprisoned. But I didn’t, though I know I had the chance. Of that, at least, I can be proud.

For some reason, I still must relive all the ordeal. It was the third time I regressed to the night I was raped, and each time there are more details, and more emotions coming out. I will bleed until my last drop of blood is shed. I know there is no other way to stop feeling anxiety, to stop feeling so depressed when this time of the year arrives, and I’m writing it all down because I’m a writer, though I wish I could also draw like a child who remembers past lives. I would draw a German officer with his head blown off, or maybe a handsome German soldier coming for my rescue. I would draw a doctor who didn’t want to help me being assaulted at gun point and being raped too. I would draw myself trying to jump from a window, but instead of jumping I would just scream and scream, and cry and cry... I still have so much pain (and rage) inside I wouldn’t even know where to begin... though it was going to be very bloody, that’s sure.

Yesterday I realized there’s so much about “broken” in this life too. Until now I thought the major issue was the sexual abuse. And that’s a hard one, of course, but there’s a lot more to it than that. It’s about loss and being alone, about broken dreams,  about the only hope I had in that life being shattered in less than a second. My future was just like that scene of the bombed city, all turned into ruins, all dark grey and destroyed, until I decided I preferred black... and I painted it black. Maybe it was my only real decision in that whole shitty life, and right or wrong, at least it was MINE.

The last dawn.

That dawn was not like any other dawn. The Sun barely could be seen far away in the horizon as an orange-coloured ball partially covered by the clouds, some sponge clouds of a grey cotton which didn’t let the blue of the sky be seen. The wind was blowing as never before in the mist of times, and pushed the clouds until they disappeared in the distance, being replaced for others as grey as them. The sea waves, boisterous like they had not been from years ago, brutally charged against the rocks.

There were no seagulls soaring through the air in search of food. Nor swam fish in the rough sea waters, nor there were crabs buried in the sand. There was not a living being to be seen anywhere. That morning the beach sand had appeared totally clean and pure. No shells, no seaweeds... only sand.

The scream of the waves crashing against the rocks was the only sound in that silence, and the wind was now the master of Nature, making the sea angry and dragging the clouds after him. Only the Earth was left.

But then in the immensity of the beach a point that moved getting close to the seashore turned up. Who or what could still be alive? It soon reached the water, and went on walking along the shore. She barely could stand. Her body, almost naked, was covered by the tatters of what had been a simple but beautiful dress. Her long and dark hair was battered by that horrible wind which was becoming more and more violent with each passing minute. She had her shoes hanging from her shoulder, tied up to walk comfortably on the sand. Her legs failed her with each step, and she fell to the sand, nearly fainting, fearing she wouldn’t be able to get up ever again. But the last thing she would lose would be her hope.

Her green eyes gazed at infinity, and now and then they let a tear, half courage, half sadness, run down. She wouldn’t stop until her last drop of strength fell down and broke in a thousand pieces. She had to reach that place... only a few metres were left. She had waited for that encounter since she was a child, and finally the day they would meet had arrived.

A spark shone in her eyes, and her rosy lips let out a sad smile. Then she stopped, and stared at the line where sky and sea joined together.

Suddenly the clouds calmed down and disappeared abandoning their grey color in the sky. The sea became still and the waves transformed themselves in a layer of smooth and uniform water. Silence filled everything. Her heart beat slower. The Sun disappeared, and with it the light. From afar a thunder boomed and from the depth of the sea a muffled murmur started to surge, like a cascade falling into the space.

She fainted due to the fear, the joy and the exhaustion. The murmur grew... grew even more, and then the sea waters were pierced by a huge blinding moon that illuminated a hundred times more than the Sun. That light filled everything: the beach, the sky, the sun... She disappeared first. Then the light swept everything else. And afterwards the void carried the light away. Silence and darkness reigned for evermore.  

  

I wrote this when I was 13 or 14, according to my notes, though I wasn’t sure then and I’m not sure now. I’ve translated it for this blog and I’m amazed at how past life memories get unconsciously reflected on all we do... More than thirty years have passed for me to realize where this short story was coming from. Now I’m trying to work through the emotions and to remember in detail the events that led me to that day in the beach where darkness threatened to take away my life... and eventually did. When I started to write this blog I said I wanted to go inside, there where it really hurts... well, this hurts more than I can say, but if I force it I feel it slips through my fingers and I can’t do anything. I mean, emotions don’t come out when I want them to come out. I wish I could sit down, do some self-reiki like the other day, and let all the stuck emotions flood and get me like a tsunami, but it looks like it doesn’t work that way. They come just when they want: when I’m listening to a certain song with certain lyrics, when I’m with my boyfriend and something triggers something, when I’m typing on my laptop and suddenly I can see the same images in my mind, playing over and over again, making me feel sad and wretched.

Yesterday I listened to some binaural recordings again but it didn’t feel as right as before, I could gather some fragments together because I wanted to relive it all again, to the very second of what happened, but I wonder... do the details matter so much? When do emotional wounds exactly occur? What makes the deepest wound? The fear, the helplessness, the realization you just can’t fight and you have to let the man do with you whatever he wants, the nausea, the weakness, is it all at the same time? Is it the stab in itself, or the bleeding through days and weeks, piercing your soul like a sword through your heart that stays there making a zombie out of you? The only thing I’m sure of is that I killed myself while I was still paralyzed, I chose death to get rid of all that suffering, never knowing the pain follows you to the next lives, until you learn to deal with it, until you learn to get over it.... if you ever do.

For some minutes rage wanted to go out as well, but then it subdued and went into hiding again. I was going to write some words about it and then I just couldn’t, but I know it keeps being there somewhere in the inside... Sometimes I am told I have a lot of accumulated anger, but they don’t know to which extent... My theory is that anger comes from pain that goes beyond words, but once again, what can you do with that anger? I could have killed whoever was around me back then, they surely believed me nuts anyway, and I wouldn’t have been the first one to go mad during a war, but once I had the gun in my hand I only killed myself... And now the only way to get that anger out is through music, tears and... once more, writing. But honestly, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get somewhere...

Broken.

Lately I feel like I don’t need more regressions to remember or to get in past life mood, it feels weird because this way I don’t get new memories, only flashes of old places, old situations, maybe new thoughts I’m not sure of because I’m not “deep” enough... but above all, I get raw emotions, too raw, too tough, too... wild. I’m not feeling like this trying to meditate, only through self-reiki or whatever it is called, sometimes you feel nothing, sometimes it’s just… wow! Like now, like this evening… all unexpected, no, not unwanted, I guess, but I’m not impatient to know more, to feel more, it just… comes.

And it feels good, so good… no idea how it works but the best way to explain is like having an infected, rotten wound, swollen, with only a tiny hole to get inside. You take water with a syringe and you flush it all inside, and then the water comes out through the hole, cleansing the inside, draining all the pus and the worms and the black, stinking material… only, water is energy, white and shiny energy, and emotions are all the rest. They are intense emotions, but they don’t hurt anymore, you cry but you’re not crying of pain, you cry of relief, it’s like a soft summer rain pouring on you.

While seeing myself in these past situations, I was thinking something like this:

BROKEN. I love this word. I loved it when Bran (character of Game of thrones) said he had now a broken body. It sounds tough, it sounds true, you say it when something can’t be repaired, and there are moments in your life when you feel it, when you feel your soul is being broken, when you know there’s no turning back, no chance to regain hope, love or trust. When did you feel like this? Well, the first time he slapped me, the first time he raped me… and when you’re in prison and they tell you to confess. To confess what? I will never confess something I did, not being guilty. They don’t even know what happened, crimes are being ignored here while I’m the only one who is going to pay for it. Guilty of what? Of living a broken life? And for what? To change death for a life in prison? That sounds ironic, as that's what I was trying to escape from. Time takes me back to where it all started…

BROKEN.Like those words from the song by Marillion, long before Bran, the verse that says “Breaking someone up inside (is your only source of pride)". Words that resonate with you but you never know why… until now, because that’s what they did to you, that’s what the verse means, a harm that can’t be repaired, not through a whole lifetime, not even through a few lifetimes, you just broke and you started bleeding, and you’re still bleeding to death, because that’s how it feels… a sweet death, almost like a drug going through your veins and making you forever asleep, only death never comes, and you keep bleeding, ever since it all started.

A BROKEN RIB, A BROKEN EYE, A BROKEN LIFE, A BROKEN NECK, EVERYTHING BROKEN, just because he wasn’t ready to love. You didn’t love me? Ok, but you could have at least respected me. Love and respect, aren’t those the marriage vows, those we made on the altar, before God? Now I pray to God to save me but I know nothing will do, too late for that, maybe I should have put an end to it back then, that time in the bathtub… but no, it’s not me who must die. It wasn’t me who was going to die…

How much pain, how much hate, how much rage can you carry with you? All boiling inside, through a whole life and beyond. It seems no one noticed, but it was all there, beneath the sweet appearance of an innocent woman. I still hear the wound cracking, like a log that cracks in the fire, breaking. But it will stop. It has to stop.

Hurting.

No… hurting is not the word. But I’m lost for words. I’m lost for everything, really. I don’t understand the world I’m living in anymore. I don’t understand myself. Friends that seemed good friends are suddenly gone or look strange… What seemed right in the past, now it’s wrong. All gone. All different. Wondering all along: what am I doing here?

I created this blog to talk about all the things I don’t feel comfortable talking about in other places. To force myself somehow to write about all those secrets hidden in the deepest places of my soul, as if I’m trusting the Moon and the Stars to listen and give me counsel, now that I feel no one listens anymore. The problem is… I don’t even know where to begin. Strong, bitter emotions, keep stuck inside. One day it seems it’s getting easier, but the next I’m back where I was. Someone told me emotional traumas (this life or past life-related) get crystallized inside of us, and no matter how much time has passed since the creation of that trauma, we have the impression we’re reliving it time and time again. We have to find the origin of that trauma and understand the illusion of the emotion behind it. Only then we can heal. Although I know she’s right, the problem I have here is that past and present have become the same. And just like I didn’t know how to deal with the hurting caused in the distant past, I don’t know how to deal with it in the now… the fight is not useful any longer, or so it seems. What worked when I was young, is not working now. However, things haven’t changed much… only, I’m a bit older now, and I’m a lot more tired and hopeless. I’ve done all I was supposed to do, and even finished projects I started in my youth… but they’re fruitless. It’s like I’m treading on a barren land, after years and years working in the fields and sowing good seeds. I’ve gained nothing… as if I had done… nothing.

Is the end getting closer? Not the real end, but a new beginning… If that’s true, I don’t see it. Like Legolas before the battle in Helm’s Deep, I’m falling into despair. I used to listen to a radio broadcast which started with a phrase: “Only when the tunnel is in absolute darkness, light can start to shine again”. Am I reaching the deepest darkness of my soul? Is this the biggest trial I’ll face in this life, how to get out of this mess? I have no idea.

There are people in worst situations, some would say, to cheer me up. This crisis is striking hard on all of us, and there's a few around me going through tough phases too… well, that’s alright, but it’s no comfort for me. And though this in no way can compare to a war or to be killed in a revolution, I just thought for a while that I deserved some happiness, some tiny little happiness, maybe just knowing that people value my effort and my experiences and want to listen and learn. I have lots of things to say, there are hundreds of books inside of me, mysteries to be told, insights I can give, just like an ancient wise man beside a bonfire, with starry-eyed children and adults crowding around him, eager to hear the next tale. But the world is not like that anymore, as I was saying at the beginning of this entry. It’s becoming a confusing and dark place, with a lot of chatter but so few worthy words in it. With tons of information, but so little real knowledge. With people who follow blindly other people, searching for answers, when the answers are deep inside us… and always have been. Where we know better than ever how human beings have committed (and are committing) despicable atrocities… but we keep doing harm and turning our heads to the other side, as if we’re not responsible of everything that happens in our planet. And putting our faith in hollow symbolisms, and getting confused by old superstitions, as if we’re still living in the caverns, but now we dress with suits and we only worship our mobile phones… surrounded by technology, and denying our own spirituality, the only thing that really makes us human.

I’m lost. I’m a lost soul in an ocean of stupidity and my days are numbered. I can only drown.

I’ve just remembered a song that fits here, and it could be a good ending for this entry. It’s not the same time I feel like this. Feeling strange and isolated is not new in my life, of course. It’s only that it’s getting harder and harder to bear…  here in this space capsule I’ve built, while I’m watching the world and sometimes shouting… knowing no one can hear me… and there’s nothing I can do.

MISSION (A WORLD RECORD)

For many days we travelled from a distant place and time,
To reach a place they call the planet Earth,
There was to be a celebration,

On the mission of the sacred heart.

The planet Earth from way up there is beautiful and blue

And floating softly through a rainbow,

But when you touch down things look different here,

At the mission of the sacred heart.

Watching all the days roll by

Who are you and who am I?

On a dirty worn-out sidewalk, sits a mother with a baby,

In her vale of tears she sees no rainbow

And someone's singing from a window

In the mission of the sacred heart.

Watching all the days roll by

Who are you and who am I?

There's a building on a corner, in a city, in a land,

On a place they call the planet Earth,
My orders are to sit here and watch the world go by,

From the mission of the sacred heart.

Mourning.

Sometimes things happen just when it is time, just when you need it...

A friend of mine posted the following in a forum we both visit daily. She didn't know I had been thinking about Frodo's grief after his return home, and how this reminded me of the feelings I have in regards to reincarnation and the wounds that never heal. Least of all, she knew about the self-regression I did yesterday night, where old scenes of a past life that still hurt so much turned up again. Though here the mourner is mourning for a deceased loved one, we who remember past lives, and most of all, remember our own deaths, see the similarities between this mourning and the emotions we have while we're trying to accept that past life.

The Mourner's Bill of Rights

    by Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.

Though you should reach out to others as you do the work of mourning, you should not feel obligated to accept the unhelpful responses you may receive from some people. You are the one who is grieving, and as such, you have certain "rights" no one should try to take away from you.

    

The following list is intended both to empower you to heal and to decide how others can and cannot help. This is not to discourage you from reaching out to others for help, but rather to assist you in distinguishing useful responses from hurtful ones.

1. You have the right to experience your own unique grief.

    No one else will grieve in exactly the same way you do. So, when you turn to others for help, don't allow them to tell what you should or should not be feeling.

 2. You have the right to talk about your grief.

    Talking about your grief will help you heal. Seek out others who will allow you to talk as much as you want, as often as you want, about your grief. If at times you don't feel like talking, you also have the right to be silent.

 3. You have the right to feel a multitude of emotions.

    Confusion, disorientation, fear, guilt and relief are just a few of the emotions you might feel as part of your grief journey. Others may try to tell you that feeling angry, for example, is wrong. Don't take these judgmental responses to heart. Instead, find listeners who will accept your feelings without condition.

 4. You have the right to be tolerant of your physical and emotional limits.

    Your feelings of loss and sadness will probably leave you feeling fatigued. Respect what your body and mind are telling you. Get daily rest. Eat balanced meals. And don't allow others to push you into doing things you don't feel ready to do.

  5. You have the right to experience "griefbursts."

    Sometimes, out of nowhere, a powerful surge of grief may overcome you. This can be frightening, but is normal and natural. Find someone who understands and will let you talk it out.

 6. You have the right to make use of ritual.

    The funeral ritual does more than acknowledge the death of someone loved. It helps provide you with the support of caring people. More importantly, the funeral is a way for you to mourn. If others tell you the funeral or other healing rituals such as these are silly or unnecessary, don't listen.

 7. You have the right to embrace your spirituality.

    If faith is a part of your life, express it in ways that seem appropriate to you. Allow yourself to be around people who understand and support your religious beliefs. If you feel angry at God, find someone to talk with who won't be critical of your feelings of hurt and abandonment.

 8. You have the right to search for meaning.

    You may find yourself asking, "Why did he or she die? Why this way? Why now?" Some of your questions may have answers, but some may not. And watch out for the clichéd responses some people may give you. Comments like, "It was God's will" or "Think of what you have to be thankful for" are not helpful and you do not have to accept them.

 9. You have the right to treasure your memories.

    Memories are one of the best legacies that exist after the death of someone loved. You will always remember. Instead of ignoring your memories, find others with whom you can share them.

 10. You have the right to move toward your grief and heal.

   Reconciling your grief will not happen quickly. Remember, grief is a process, not an event. Be patient and tolerant with yourself and avoid people who are impatient and intolerant with you. Neither you nor those around you must forget that the death of someone loved changes your life forever.

Not long ago I was mourning for a life that is still present. Today I mourn for a life that is past. Is there really any difference? I don't think there is, as time is an illusion. And thanks to my friend, today I know I have all the right in the world to grieve for that past life, as long as I need it. I am constantly reminding myself "If you need to cry, just cry, cry, CRY". Nothing's wrong about it. And I do. But I never know when it will be the last time. It seems... not yet.

Does it matter anyway? We have all eternity to mourn and we have the right to decide when to move on. There are lives I wish I'd never forget, but no longer they seem to bother me. And I can't even bring back the good memories, at least no more than blurred images or faint emotions long gone. But there are other lives that still come like giant waves on a calm sea, wholly unexpected, just when you thought it was over. When I first started to remember this life, I was surprised it didn't bring strong emotions with it, I didn't even feel guilty about what I did. Now, it has become one of the toughest ones. Still no guilt, but the rest of emotions are really strong and they stick to me, hardly letting me breathe.

I suspect this is because there are no different lives. We all live an eternal life where we change our physical bodies, but there's no beginning and there's no end. And it's just natural that similar events or situations in the present bring memories of past lives where we went through similar problems. Which is the reason behind this, I wish I knew. One of my strongest theories is we can handle those problems in a better way if we have those past lives in mind. Sometimes it could be even a reminder not to make the same mistakes again. Other times, maybe there's no reason. We remember just because we remember, kind of you go to an amusement park in Paris called Eurodisney and you think: "Hey, in my past life I was in a similar park called Disneyland, but this was in the States". 

In this case though, I'm remembering because it still hurts. It hurts how a life that could have been a normal life became a nightmare and I didn't find a better option than destroying myself and a few around me. It hurts because I couldn't get over the shock, the hatred and the desire of revenge. I could have stopped, but I just followed down that path until Justice caught me. I had it all, I lost it, I had the chance to leave it all that behind but I wasted it, possibly engulfed by my own suffering and never forgetting old deeds that could have been... maybe not forgiven (not so soon), but tossed aside and buried in the darkest of holes, as something that should never have happened and that it was not my fault. But once again... the victim turned into the aggressor.

The final part of that life is accepted. I reaped what I sowed. What is not accepted yet is the initial shock; the mistreatment by my husband, the one who was supposed to love me and protect me, as the marriage vows said; the denial of all those close to me, who counseled me not to speak; the fear of not being believed if I talked; the silence and the isolation I felt from all those around me, witnesses who turned into accomplices, instead of defending the young and the weak.

No wonder I still need to mourn. For that past life and for all the other women (and men) who add to the ever-growing lists of deaths caused by what is now called "domestic violence".

There and back again.

I was going to use this title for the blog itself. For me it sounded like “reincarnation”. “There” being the planet Earth (or the physical world you choose to reincarnate, in my case it’s been always planet Earth, as far as I remember), and “Back” the spiritual world. Due to technical reasons I finally couldn’t do it, and I’m glad now, first because I identify much more with Eowyn and her bitter watches, and second, because today I’ve realized… there is no going back. Just like Frodo says at the end of The Return of the King.

And this can be applied to many aspects of reincarnation.

One of them is reincarnation itself. We say we are a soul having a human experience, and when we die we return home, where we’re eternal and we have nothing to fear. Well, this is true, but our soul is not exactly what it was. Human experiences change us, possibly at a slower pace than most people think, but when we’re back home, we’re never the same. We can’t be. Maybe that’s the fundamental reason why we incarnate, to be changed… to learn, some say. And they call it “spiritual evolution”. I don’t like the word “evolution”, because most people understand it has to be always a change for the better. However, I’ve just searched for the meaning of “evolution” in the internet, and this is what I’ve found:

1. A gradual change in the characteristics of a population of animals or plants over successive generations: accounts for the origin of existing species from ancestors unlike them.

2. A gradual development, esp. to a more complex form: the evolution of modern art.

3. The act of throwing off, as heat, gas, vapour, etc.

4. A pattern formed by a series of movements or something similar.

5. An algebraic operation in which the root of a number, expression, etc, is extracted.

6. An exercise carried out in accordance with a set procedure or plan.

http://www.wordreference.com/definition/evolution

It says nowhere it has to be for the better… unless people have thought all this time human beings are the best form of evolution and then they have extrapolated this thought to our spiritual condition too. Of course, I disagree. We evolve, that’s certain, but that means we change gradually through our human experiences, sometimes for the better, sometimes we just… change.

Frodo made me think of all this, because some of his wounds from his quest and his journey to Mordor never heal. Like he says, there are hurts that go too deep. And I’ve found this is what happens with us, those who remember past lives. Or at least it takes time, a whole lot of time, and no, it’s not enough visiting past life healers or spiritual counselors… it just takes time. I can be the best doctor in my field, but I can’t rush the process, nature is nature and it has its laws. I can help, I can clean, I can foresee complications and fight against them, but to heal completely… it will heal just when it has to.

So, we return home, and we go back to Earth, but the burden is not the same. The burden is ever heavier and heavier, we may have chosen to leave behind a part of that burden, but we can’t turn our backs on the things we have lived, even if it’s in an unconscious way.

Another aspect of reincarnation where we can apply the saying “There is no going back” is the process of discovering your past lives. Not long ago I used to say that once you have found knowledge, you can’t go back to ignorance. In other words, you can’t “unlearn” what you have learnt. Yes, you can pretend nothing changed, or even ignore the fact that the dreams you had were not normal dreams, but past life memories… you can go on with your life and not give reincarnation a second thought. But lying to yourself is not very responsible, is it? And repressing feelings is not even healthy. So there’s no use in hiding or avoiding what you have found: that you have lived before, that sometimes you’ve made mistakes, that for some reason you’re back here in this difficult task, not very sure of the meaning, if it’s any at all. Almost without realizing it, you’ve changed. And when you die and go back home, you won’t be the same anymore.

Remembering past lives changes you so much that people who used to know you may say you are like a stranger to them. And that’s a curious thing to happen, as now you know yourself much better than before…