Question of the Day: “Why do I believe in past lives?”

When I was very young, I started investigating past lives. It was as early as fourth grade. I am an avid reader, and when I was younger and had more time, I read everything I could get my hands on. This included stories about past lives. I read about the boy in England who described in great detail how he was a German pilot who crashed his plane. His parents first became curious when he was drawing eagles and swastikas and the boy explained that those were his badges.

Then there is the five year old boy who claims to have been a woman named Pam who died in an apartment fire in Chicago. His mother did some digging and found that in 1993 a woman named Pamela Robinson jumped to her death when a building caught fire. Coincidence? Overactive imagination? These stories and my own personal experiences have led me to today’s question: “Why do I believe in past lives?”

I know past lives are a tricky subject with some. They are often either my extremely religious friends or my extremely atheist friends. It seems like both ends of the spectrum can agree on one thing: this life is the only one you get. But I know this is not true. I feel it. I feel it like I feel grief on others, who will win the Super Bowl, and if this is the right path for me. It’s a deep knowing. I have been here before. I have lived again and again.

I have always been an old-young. You know what I mean. Those people who are physically young but mentally much older. It’s as if they know something intangible and unaffable, but they know it all the same.

I came into this life and just knew how to read. My mom also talks about how I had all of the religious prayers memorized well before I should have and people would stand in amazement as I rattled them off.

When I was ten, I became obsessed with the Civil War. Not the mystic aspect of Gone with the Wind, I was intrigued by the war itself. I read about generals and battles with the same veracity most little girls read Gossip Girls.

Each stage of life came with a different time period obsession. World War II was thirteen. Henry VIII and British history in my late teens. Early 20s found me unable to get enough of George Sand and Chopin. With each one of my deep dives into particular times in history, I felt soothed with the knowledge. It felt like a coming home of sorts, a belonging that I could not explain. The words, music, names, photos, art work all felt so familiar. It was as if I was being reminded not learning about these things.

But none of these things were what made it so I knew there were past lives. No, that was a different experience altogether. That happened when I was about fourteen. My friends and I were laying on a blanket having a picnic at the park. We were playing games and listening to music. As I laid on the blanket, I rolled over to a part where the blanket stopped and the fresh grass began and I happened to inhale. The rush of the smell of cold untouched dirt and new spring grass hit me and I was seized by a memory that wasn’t mine. How do I do I explain this? It registered in my mind like a memory, but I had no connection to it. It was a memory of dying, dying with my head pushed against the ground and my body immobile. I could feel myself leaving myself and disintegrating into a million little pieces and melting in with all of the little pieces around me. I did not feel scared. I felt absolutely calm in a way I have never known in this life. I knew I was dying and it was amazing.

This entire event happened in less than a second, but it has stayed with me. I have had more such experiences since then. I was holding Cole as a baby in my arms as I knelt on the living room floor. He was crying and I was trying to sooth him. In that moment, I had another “memory”. I was sitting on the side of a dirt road with a baby in my arms. My baby was dead and I could not walk anymore with his lifeless body, but I also could not put him down and leave him by the side of the road. My heart was broken. I was wishing for death. Again, it feels like a memory, but it could not be mine despite the images and feelings and emotions that are in me when I am doing the remembering.

I am not sure if my short meanderings have convinced anyone that past lives exist, but I can also feel them on others. I get glimpses, snapshots, feelings. Nothing concrete, but like everything else, it feels real. Again, this is just another indication to me that there is more than just this life.

Either way, feel free to let me know where you stand. I always enjoy the discourse!

Love and Light, fellow travelers.