Thoughts on the June 5 regression.
In my previous blog “ Being Transparent,” I explain my motivation to share my cancer story and how I came to be involved in QHHT or Quantum Healing Hypnosis Therapy.
Here is the part that many people are curious about: what was my past life? To back up, I believe that people have had many past lives. I’m not completely new to past life hypnosis, and I wrote about my other past life regression experience 7 or 8 years ago on this blog. That time I saw my life unfold as a British sea captain around the beginning of the 19th century. After several false career starts, I captained a British East India vessel and due to bad luck more than anything else, my ship sank and I lost a full cargo of imported goods and was haunted by sense of failure and never being good enough. At the time, it was a useful life to see because it answered questions in my current life of why I had so much masculine energy, why I felt so at home with British history, and my lifelong feeling of insecurity, fear of failure and criticism. John Eakins was his name, and he was essentially a good but weak man. Seeing him felt familiar and unsurprising, like I knew he would be there waiting for me. Walking around in boots and a three cornered hat felt as natural as putting on shorts and a t-shirt in this lifetime. That was not a QHHT session, though, and even though it was helpful it wasn’t aimed at healing my body and spirit.
As I mentioned in Transparent, the most recent June 5 session took place in the Florida Keys with a level 3 QHHT practitioner and teacher, Sarah Breskman. She works out of her waterfront home on Big Pine Key. When Michelle and I drove there, we passed her street and had to turn around. A large key deer walked straight at our car, curiously and purposefully. Deer are my Native American Spirit animal, and I’d never seen a Key Deer, believe it or not. Michelle and I are pretty attuned to coincidence, so we took this sighting to be a good omen. When we got to Sarah’s house, she came out to greet us and asked, “Did you see a deer?” They’re all over the neighborhood.” I still chose to think of it as a happy, fortuitous thing to see, even though it is apparently commonplace.
Hypnotherapist Sarah, after discussing for two hours my goals for the session, questions, issues, and outline of my life and childhood, readied me for hypnosis in a comfortable, soft chair with a commanding view of the waterways. After I closed my eyes, she gently guided me to picture a beautiful place, which was very like the land from my previous regression: I pictured a green field abruptly breaking off in a cliff high above a sea, something you might see in Cornwall, England, or Ireland. Following Sarah’s prompts, I visualized myself hovering on a cloud over this ideal peace landscape, then allowed my cloud to take me into another space. Before Sarah even finished her prompts, I saw a barren, arid desert loom up under the cloud. When I “landed” and entered that space, all I could see was tan, hard packed sand with small rocks, very few tufts of vegetation, a mountain range in the far distance, small clumps of animal bones here and there, and relentless, punishing heat. I have no idea of what time period this was or where it was, but way earlier than anything I’d anticipated.
I felt like a man, and I caught sight of my own hairy legs underneath a robe fastened with a hemp like belt. I had on low boots made out of animal skin, but I felt like my normal footwear would be sandals — I only had boots because I faced the wilderness and possibly a very long walk. There was a sense of being alone and abandoned, and I knew I would never walk out of that landscape alive. I had no food or water. Part of my robe was torn and fashioned into a head covering. I was older, balding and the heat was fierce. I would describe my mindset as distressed but resigned rather than panic stricken.
I have to stress that there is nothing threatening or scary about this process. Have you ever been super relaxed, hanging out with a friend and lounging on a sofa, just chatting as you hover between waking and a nap? This is how it was. You are there and ready to be fully awake, even to comment on what your mind sees, but just relaxed enough to receive random associations and thoughts.
The first reaction from my outside, conscious-waking-Mimi-mind was one of boredom and disappointment. Secretly, I’d hoped to see a more recent incarnation and wanted to move into the 19th century or preferably the 20th century to access an interesting, probably naughty life. Maybe a wealthy flapper who disgraced herself by running off with an impoverished jazz musician, or a World War II Spitfire pilot who left a trail of depravity and broken hearts on the ground between missions, before he was killed in action. But this place? I had no idea what time period or where this was, and even my recent Bible studies did not predispose me to any kind of life in Egypt or Canaan or Babylon. Too early, too uninteresting, as far as I was concerned.
Now here I am in this lifetime staggering around in a hot, ugly place wearing something that looked like a burlap sack. Really? But I wasn’t seeing anything else, so I had to roll with it.
Sarah asked how I came to be in that situation, if I could back up and explain where I came from. A picture of an earth packed hut came into focus, part of a cluster of huts that belonged to a community of people that were partly nomadic, grew very few crops, hunted for food. It was a hard life, the search for water was ongoing, and the heat ruled our days but the nights got cold. My father was a tribal herbalist, I used the word apothecary to described what he did, although this would not have been the word the tribe used. Tufts of herbs hung from the ceiling of our hut. My mother was busy all day with basic needs of food preparation, gathering food and water, and caring for me and my younger brother. My younger brother didn’t survive long; he was trampled by large animals, I think oxen, and I saw his body broken up and my mother wailing, unintelligible with grief. He was buried under rocks and guard was placed to keep scavenging animals away.
After this, my father buried himself in work and my mother was not able to function some days. As I put it, “She was what you would now called depressed.” They withdrew from social life and each other and I grew up, withdrawing into myself. At about 12, I began to experience either visions or voices and I tried to tell my father but he didn’t want to know about it.
When I was 19 or 20, a splinter group of younger men and women set off to form their own community and search for better, more hospitable land. I went with them. Armed with my father’s herbal healing knowledge, I served as tribal or community healer and sometimes counselor and spiritual advisor. After a long journey, we found and settled a slightly lusher land with a water source and actual caves for shade. For many years, it seemed like the proverbial land of milk and honey and we contentedly worked and hunted this land. In terms of physical demands, this was as grueling as our parents’ lives. It was a hardscrabble existence. Happily single, I did not desire a marriage and children that could potentially replicate what I’d experienced growing up, a death of a child and descent into despair. Also, I knew that my cerebral life took precedence over my bodily, worldly needs to reproduce and raise a family. At some point, my ability to see and hear messages from some kind of spirit voice increased. I was utterly convinced that these messages would offer people some form of salvation, save people from despair, and would also give logistical, practical ways to improve our community life — such as promptings to travel to other places. I referred to myself as a “seer.”
At first, I attempted to share my convictions with the community. I wanted to gather as many people as I could at one time, so I didn’t have to repeat myself. I was spending more and more time in my caves, meditating and receiving visions and messages. The men and women around me were somewhat tolerant but they began to resent the amount of time I spent in isolation, not being available to help with daily tasks and medical needs.
Sensing the need for a more receptive audience, I requested a few oxen and a couple of companions to accompany me on what must have been a mission or preaching journey. Nobody wanted to go and nobody could be spared. As I’ve said, this landscape was brutal and it was not a place you’d travel alone, so I abandoned that plan and retreated into the meditative, visionary shadow of my cave. I’d begun to question my own sanity.
At some critical point, I found a pack or “scroll” of writings that were hidden — or they just appeared — in the cave network. I’d picked up reading and writing from my father because I was able to read or at least figure out these written scrolls. The most exciting part was that they reinforced my messages, they gave credibility to the visions I’d been having for years that weren’t taken seriously. The scrolls themselves were brittle and crumbling and I fiercely guarded them. I committed as much to memory as I could and spoke of them to whoever would listen.
This had been going on for about 15 years, say about from age 55 to 70, which is pretty ripe old age for the time period it seemed to be. (The more I think about it, the more it seems likely B.C.) Either suddenly — or gradually? — not sure — my spoken word preaching and storytelling seemed to be heretical to whatever accepted ethical and spiritual beliefs the community upheld. I was old, expendable, irritating, and my community, now run by my tribesmen’s children, had had enough of my abstract pontificating.
A couple of young strong men carted me or walked me out into the wilderness and left me to die. This was their way, to not kill somebody outright but to abandon them to certain death through heat exposure, lack of food and water. I felt very disappointed and angry that nobody listened to me in this life and somewhat regretful that I hadn’t had enough courage to break free on my own and to brave the elements when I was young enough to travel, trusting in whatever spirit I’d discovered to help me survive. As that life came to an end, I lifted out of my body and saw myself facedown in the rocky dirt, knowing that other people would have the same visions and that the word would be carried on, and I could depart in peace. A shaft of light came to collect me and I felt not rapturous joy, just a calm sense that I’d done about as much as I could and that now I could rest.
That was the only life I saw that day in my QHHT session. Soon, Sarah gently prompted me to my Subconscious mind and proceeded to ask the questions we’d reviewed together. This is when I revealed the purpose, message, and healing possibilities outlined in my previous post “Being Transparent.”
I could have accessed any number of lives, I believe, but I saw the one I need to see now. It is my origin story as a spiritual believer, perhaps as a Christian. It is also the original source of my fear of abandonment.
As I thought about it over the next few days, the experience gave me confidence. In this life, I could experience messages and miracles outside the natural world. This is entirely due to the happenstance of grace from God, and I think anybody can access this if they are so inclined, ready and willing. If I could do it in that life, I can do it in this one, too.
The feeling of abandonment, and the frustration of not being listened to, is an umbrella term under which I can place anger, resentment, insecurity, insignificance, fear of failure, and the constant search for fulfillment in human relationships that has haunted me, apparently, for over a thousand years. My Subconscious said that my liver tumor is the dumping ground for all this emotion, and I have decided in this incarnation to stop the buck and heal it.
It took a few days to connect the dots, and I listened to the recording of my session to pick out details that I didn’t retain the first time. I recalled most of what happened upon “waking,” however, and I hurried to scribble it down in a journal as soon as I told Michelle what I’d seen. The week after the session, parts of the Bible I hadn’t yet read before popped up in sermons and remarks during the ensuing week, like the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel.
“The hand of the Lord was on me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry.” (Ezekiel 37:1-2 NIV)
I am not saying that I lived in the time of Ezekiel, but I did have an existence where spiritual questioning was my function, and as I experience my own brush with the dry bones of disease and mortality in this lifetime, it is important to understand the promise of healing and everlasting life that passage from scripture reveals.
The day of the session, however, I didn’t feel any particular joy or healing. More like a lifting, a hopefulness, a sense of understanding, but not cartwheeling joy. I wondered where the healing miracle was, when the healing would happen. Even though I’d said six months, there was a more honest part of me that wanted it now, now, now. I’m tired of walking around at 95 lbs looking sickly and feeling like a junior alien in a borrowed human skin. I felt detached, a bit in la-la land. I was still downloading all the information I’d received from my past life and my Subconscious.
Michelle collected me from the appointment, and although she’d prepped a cooler full of vegan, organic meals so we wouldn’t have to expose ourselves and my compromised immune system to restaurants. Despite our best intentions, we celebrated my session by going off grid and sat outside at The Cracked Conch, for the best cracked conch I’ve had since I was a kid visiting the Abaco Islands. (To clarify, I am only an aspirational vegan but will happily let one cook for me any time. Michelle is a true vegan, and she indulged herself with French fries, something she hardly ever does.) We were both wiped out and I was giving her the debrief of my session. Privately I was asking myself, “where’s the miracle? Where’s the healing?” After our decadent meal she drove us to a pretty waterfront park she’d found. It wasn’t super crowded on the beach and people were keeping safe social distance. This was between the first and second Covid spikes, the illusory lull we had for about a month before things skyrocketed in Florida and all over the country.
Now, I asked my dad soon before he died if he would visit me from Heaven or the afterlife, or his spirit world, if he had the ability to do that kind of thing. “I sure will,” he said. “Sugar, I sure will do that.” I never expected much. How do I know what happens after death? He could be very busy. He could be visiting all his old sailing spots in the Abacos. He could be very tired and resting, he could be talking to God, he could be done and over with the cast of characters that he knew on earth.
Michelle and I walked toward the beach and I heard a snuffing and wheezing behind me, a sound that only some people would recognize. Anybody who knows me knows I love bulldogs. I’ve had half a dozen of these slobbery land manatees, and my current bulldog Clyde is a constant source of hardheaded entertainment. So I swung around, fully expecting and recognizing the low slung, snorting creature that followed me. Covid restrictions forgotten, I kneeled down to pet it, not even asking the owner for permission. Luckily, the dog was friendly and so was the woman walking him. We chatted for a few minutes about bulldogs in general and I said, “So, thanks for letting me pet this handsome boy. How old is he?” She said, “He’s a rescue, he’s three years old, and his name is Charlie.”
For those of you who don’t know, my dad’s name was Charlie. Almost every other bulldog I meet is named Winston or Spike. I did meet one bulldog outside the cancer clinic the day I got my Stage 4 terminal diagnoses, and his name was Romeo. I needed some love that day, believe me. You may roll your eyes at my giving supernatural weight to the latest bulldog sighting on the beach, but I cried with gratitude and belief when I met Charlie. “Thank you, Daddy and thank you, God,” I said. “I heard that loud and clear.” On that day, in that minute, it was all the miracle I needed.
I should end here, but I feel the need to say more. While waiting for a major miracle, revelation, or recovery, don’t ignore the small stuff. It may take the form of a billboard advertisement exhorting you to buy beer and “Stay thirsty,” and you just somehow know it’s talking about the state of your parched soul. Maybe it’s a slobbery dog, a bird, a cat, a penny that you know is a sign of comfort from a place we can’t see. One of my friends finds pennies on her doorstep, on her dashboard when there wasn’t one before, and she knows they are signs from her beloved coin collecting mom who ascended several years ago.
More and more, I’m trading my superstitions in for the conviction that our loved ones can act in cahoots with and through the spirit of God. He wants us to see and be comforted by these little signs. If we’re not really ready for direct God messages, then we get sweet little tokens that look like care packages from people we love.
Life is too short and fleeting to dismiss these things as silly. I tell a lot of people nowadays that I’m ready for the arrival of Jesus and the end of our earth as we know it. I can picture the sky opening up over the Indian River. Once I determine it’s not an alien invasion or a nuclear catastrophe, I will be jumping up and down yelling “Jesus, Jesus, here I am! Take me with you!” like a girl screaming at a Beatles concert. To my mind, this beats wasting away from cancer any day. But in case this major event doesn’t take place in my lifetime, I choose to live with hope that I will live to serve, and I try to embrace everyday wonders, small and large.
In the Bible, the prophet Elijah persisted in waiting for signs of rain, waited and prayed through uncertainty, confident that a little cloud over the water would grown into a downpour and end a major drought. He went to the top of Mount Carmel and bent down to the ground in supplication. While he prayed, he sent his servant seven time to look toward the sea for signs of rain. That’s six times he got hopeless answers.
The seventh time the servant reported, “A cloud as small as a man’s hand is rising from the sea.” So Elijah said, “Go and tell Ahab, ‘Hitch up your chariot and go down before the rain stops you.’” (1 Kings 18:44 NIV)
Elijah was a major prophet and miracle worker, and he was used to receiving direct God messages, but still he felt humble and probably anxious as he asked, again and again, before the little cloud no larger than a hand became a deluge.
The rest of us are probably less secure than Elijah and we just wonder if pennies, unexpected dogs, billboards and gentle promptings in the backs of our minds could be the voice of God. I hope that those will turn out to be real manifestations of change in our lives. In the meantime, we watch for those little clouds and confidently trust that they will become thunderheads.