A Past Life Regression, with a Very Familiar Face - Part 1

It was about three years ago, when I sat in the office of a very gentle, and skilled hypnotherapist named Rick McFall. I had been working with Rick, researching this phenomenon of past life regression. I had viewed and taped several sessions, but I had yet to do one on my own. I had done one “official” regression session in the past, but for the most part, had developed my own way of connecting with these past life experiences.

I would sit down, start writing, and as I let go of my ego, I would begin writing as someone else. Someone who was me, definitely, but not me. And inevitably, this personality would bring forth the answers that I needed to some present day confusion, or issue, that I just could not seem to find an answer to.

On this day, however, three or so years ago, Rick asked me if I wanted to do a session on my own. He felt that there was something or someone there who wanted to speak. I resisted. I revealed to him that my dad had died just about two weeks before, but did not reveal that my biggest fear was that if I went under hypnosis, I might let down my guard, and all of the bottled up emotion that comes when someone you love dies, would some how cause me to melt away, or leave me a quivering mess. Truthfully, I did not know what would come out, but I was not sure I was ready to find out.

One week later, I was back, in the recliner, ready to give it a go. I knew that hypnosis was not an “out of body” experience – that I would remain fully aware of myself, and yet also aware of something larger. Perhaps, I will be able to retain some semblance of control, I thought. As I went under, following the usual path – a beach, the water on my feet, the sand between my toes, I was surprised to find myself revisiting a lifetime that a few years before, had been significant.

This man, I called him “John” was a writer, who lived in an Italian village in what I took to be the 1300’s. Why I see his name as “John” is beyond me, but perhaps it is just an iconic name, that means something more to me. I don’t imagine there were too many men named “John” at that time in Italy, but no matter.

John, his full story I will relate in a later entry, was a writer, who in a moment of desperation killed himself. He walked into the warm waters of the Mediterranean and never came out. His father had pulled away his support, and love, feeling embarrassed that John has not lived up the family expectations. The final straw was when his girlfriend, who he loved so deeply, walked out on him, for the same reasons, or so thought.

As it turned out, John was not without his faults. He was somewhat self absorbed, and tended to wallow a bit in self pity. He carried life heavily on this shoulders, and in the moment of choice, he could have walked back into the village, or taken his life. He chose the latter.

As I fell into a peaceful, relaxed state on the recliner, I found myself, John, once again, standing at the water’s edge. This time, I was atop a steep cliff overlooking the ocean below. I took a deep breath, and leapt off. I sunk deeper and deeper under the clear water, and as if I had stepped outside of time, I watched the world above disappear. I was not afraid, I was not in a panic, I just was.

After a moment of taking in the underwater surroundings, I saw a hand reaching for me from above my head. I looked at it, sensing that it was familiar, and took hold. I was pulled back to the surface, and onto the shore.

The hand was attached to my dad. He looked the same, perhaps more as he did a few years before, healthy, vital, his face was full and beaming. His smile, and his exhilaration were unmistakable. I was wearing a white toga of sorts, with faded gold embroidery around the sleeves and neckline, and he was wearing something quite similar, though his embroidery was a brilliant gold. He proceeded to sit me down on a large piece of driftwood, then sat next to me, and opened his arms, ready to share with me, just what I needed to hear, and feel.

… to be continued