I recall a few of my past lives.
It has not hurt me to remember them. It strikes me as odd that there are those who would urge us not to recall our past. What right do they have?
What if we couldn’t, for example, remember our childhood? Where we went to school, the town we grew up in, our parents, childhood birthdays, our first crush, our first car, our first dates? Why we like certain foods, certain music, but not others. What if we opened the door to our closet after we turned twenty and couldn’t remember ever buying anything in it.
We would have no understanding as to why we became the adults we became.
We’ve lived so many life times. Experienced so much. Filled with events, people and challenges that made us the person we are today. That gave us the talents and abilities we possess today. Shouldn’t we be able to remember this? They were “our” lives. Don’t we have the right to our memories?
One past life I recall rather well took place in Europe during a time of war. I was an officer. I was, I suspect, rather handsome. I had a girl, here and there, that I would spend time with during my travels as an officer.
I cared for them. They were warm and pretty. Wearing my uniform I would ride my horse to their home and spend wonderful, glorious, fulfilling days and weeks with them. Before getting back on my horse, with my bright uniform on, and riding away.
My life was short lived. A huge battle with cannons, gun fire, horses, charging men on all sides surrounded me. There were screaming men as they yelled to encourage us to move forward. And there were screaming men as they were shot and fell down dead. I can still see and hear it all. The screams, the explosions, the gun fire all around me.
I vividly recall my facing forward toward the approaching army. Feeling the strong feelings of an officer, a soldier of war, determined, knowing I was fighting the good fight. Then, very unexpectedly, I turn around and begin walking in a direction opposite of my own soldiers. Despite the massacre all about me I was walking away from the battle. My mind observing quite pragmatically, “This is stupid.”
If I was so faithful in my duty, why would this suddenly be my behavior and thought. It took my going over and over this moment many times in my mind before I realized that I had just been shot. I was dead. My life – my young life, as an officer, as a handsome young lover, as someone who had wealth, a position in life, and a future – was over.
I would never see my family again. I would never see my friends or fellow officers and soldiers again. I would never see the girls I loved again. Or so I thought.
In this life I would meet many of those same girls. Some moved in and lived with me and were more lasting relationships. But for some reason these early relationships didn’t work out. I could say we were young, stupid. Had stupid arguments – the subjects of which I cannot even recall anymore.
At that time my memories of my past lives were not as complete. I just recall that when I met them I felt an instant attraction. And they felt the same toward me. We were drawn toward each other. Felt comfortable in each other’s presence.
Would it have helped if I had been able to recall during our moments together in this life that we had lived and loved together in the past? I sincerely believe it would have. I wish I could have told them what they truly really meant to me. That our moment together in this life was not frivolous or meaningless. That it wasn’t even our first. But a continuation of a deep wonderful love that we may have shared during many lives. Perhaps if we could have shared this mutual understanding our relationship in this life could have survived our young innocence that lead to stupid arguments that lead to one of us moving out.
Napoleon caused that war. You can’t imagine the anger I felt in my present life when I realized what he had done. Fighting in his war took away my life, my hopes, my dreams, my future. All of which I now recall quite vividly.
While in Paris I made my way one beautiful day to the Dôme des Invalides where Napolean’s body is kept. It was interesting to learn that the French had sealed him – not in one casket – but in layer upon layer upon layer of caskets. And then surrounded him with warrior angel statues just in case Napoleon should rise from the dead, break free from his sealed containers, and attempt to rule over France once again. The French are that fearful of him.
I leaned my hands upon the marble railing that overlooked Napoleon’s burial setting and all I felt was rage. I wanted to break open those caskets, remove his decayed body, and choke him. Choke him until he was dead. Stupid of me. But he took a lot away from me. And here I am, centuries later, still very angry about it. Even though I have reconnected with many of those I cared about, many of those with whom I was even able to continue a love from before, I am still angry over losing what I had back then. What Napoleon took from me.
And because Napoleon is dead I can’t do anything about it. Frustrating!
Live and learn.
Vivre et apprendre.