I’ve been absent from the forum for some time after having two children. I used to post on the old forum under a similar name, though who knows where those posts have gotten to! My oldest son is now almost 4. He’s a bright, loquacious boy with a pretty broad vocabulary for such a little guy. As my son became more fluent, I remained open to the possibility that he might begin to speak of past life memories, and alerted my husband (an agnostic when it comes to reincarnation) in case he heard anything from our son. I did want to pop back on to share a few stories with folks who are interested in anecdotal evidence of reincarnation (as I know I am). I am aware, of course, that it is common for children to spontaneously recollect past lives. In this case, my son recalls people and events without any associated distress, behavioral or sleep disturbances, or unusual phobias.
Approximately one year ago, my son began speaking of people, places, and events that appear to be from another life. He first spoke of this life at bedtime one evening. I read him “Harold and the Purple Crayon.” This is a midcentury children’s classic. Our version is a very small boardbook. After we finished, he said that he had the book “before,” but that it was bigger and made of paper. He described a bookshelf in a yellow house with cats where “the father” lived, and a shelf full of toys for the cats. He was very animated during this recollection and spoke at length. He also mentioned that either he or the father drove a truck. I didn’t ask too many questions, although the way he was speaking immediately caught my attention. It did not seem to be a usual flight of imagination, more like he was describing something that actually happened. The only detail I doubt has to do with the truck, since he loves trucks and often incorporates them into his play.
Every few days after that, he spoke of this past life, usually at bedtime or when driving in the car, but also during playtime. He speaks spontaneously and rarely answers simple, non-leading questions. His recollections are occasionally punctuated with the statement “when I was old” or “when I was bigger.” The main characters in his recollection are “the Father” and “my boy.” He once or twice mentioned “my boy and the girls.” I once asked if there was a mommy, and he pet my hair and said “she has brown hair like you.”
Over the months, I’ve gleaned a fair amount of information about this lifetime. He told me that he was a painter (like a workman, not an artist.) He told me “I miss paining.” The father built a treehouse. The father had a beard, and when he “got very old” his hair turned “white and crinkly.”
He speaks often of the yellow house, noting on one occasion that “my boy’s yellow house is so far away.” With respect to “the boy,” he’s said that “there were holly trees at my boy’s house, but a truck came and pulled them up. Now they’re all gone.” He said the father used to put out a skeleton for Halloween, but the boy was afraid of it. His boy used to use solder in a workshop. His boy had a big Christmas tree with lots of lights. He sadly noted, on one occasion, “I can’t go to my boy’s yellow house anymore.” Confusingly, he sometimes acted as though his boy lives in our neighborhood, almost as though he's jumbling up his memories and his current environment.
He also talked about these memories with my husband, to the extent that my skeptical husband has become a bit of a believer. Apparently, my husband was explaining daylight savings and mentioned Chicago to my son. My son then offered: “My boy told me Chicago is dangerous. It’s a bad town.” My husband found this statement quite bizarre, both in substance and in the way my son spoke.
It’s always apparent when he’s speaking of this life because of “my boy,” “the father,” and “the yellow house.” I still can’t determine the relationship between my son, the father, and “his” boy. I’ve also never been able to get a name or identifying features. After three or four months of regular recollections, his memories subsided for a time.
Then, about six months later, he began speaking of different characters, specifically a girl named “Cynthia”. I couldn’t tell if these memories were related to the earlier ones or if they were connected to a different lifetime altogether. Since his language skills continue to improve, he was able to share more complex stories. He also seemed to distinguish a bit more clearly between his current life and his past life. For example, he often prefaced his more recent memories with “when I was older” or “when I was a big boy.” He has told me that Cynthia had a baby, but she didn’t have any of the equipment we use with our own baby. He wanted to give some of our baby’s old toys “to Cynthia because she needs it for her baby.” He tried to explain to me a game played with bales of hay.
Another time, we were playing in the yard and apropos of nothing he told me: "“When I was older, when I was a big boy, I walked to school by myself and I saw a green wall with a green tree growing on it. I thought it was growing on the wall, but it was actually behind the wall. The wall was green and the tree was green.” For some reason, he thought this was very funny. He also mentioned Cynthia.
One day, we had the most incredible conversation. He spontaneously told me that “Cynthia’s not a kid. She’s a grown up. I don’t know where her house is anymore. It’s far far away.” From our past conversations, I had the impression that he often remembered Cynthia as a little girl, so I asked if Cynthia grew up. He said, “She was a little girl, then she was a woman when she grew up. She got older and older and older. She got very old and sick. Then she was dead. Cynthia died. I was there. I was very sad. I don’t know if I can see her again.” I asked him why not. “She got buried,” he said, “She would be all yucky.”
For the first time, he did seem to be a bit disturbed by his memories. Perhaps he had not remembered that the people in his memories were dead prior to this moment. Up to this point, I’d simply listened to his stories, expressed interest in hearing them, and very very occasionally attempted an open-ended question (he usually stopped talking if I asked questions, so generally I refrained and just let him say whatever he wanted to say.) Given his distress, I thought it appropriate to tell him that there was always a chance he would meet Cynthia again, but she wouldn’t be the same. She would be a new person with a new mommy and daddy, just like he was himself and lived in our family now. If he ever met her again, she would have a new body that wouldn’t be the same as the one that had been buried. This seemed to comfort him.
After a few minutes of silence, he had more to say. He told me that he “was Cynthia’s daddy.” He told me he worked in a workshop. He also told me “you used to be small.” I asked if I was there when he was with Cynthia, but he said no. Since his recollection seemed so strong, I decided to push a little and ask him who “the father” was. He repeated that he was Cynthia’s daddy, but I still can’t tell if that’s the same person as “the father.” I asked who “his boy” was, and he said, “Well, I used to be a boy, then I got bigger. When I grew up I was a man.” It was wild stuff.
After a few months of frequent memories involving Cynthia, he stopped talking about that life altogether. Interestingly, last week I mentioned that a plant had died, and he asked me what dead means. I found this a bit odd given our conversation months earlier about Cynthia. I explained how living things die, and my son found it quite surprising and upsetting to learn that people also die. This made me wonder if he's in a bit of an altered state when he recalls his past lives since he seems to have an understanding of concepts that he doesn't possess normally. I've heard that children be "trance-like" when they have their memories, but for some reason I expected him to at least remember what he said!
I’ll be curious to see if we go through another few rounds of memories over the coming years. He’ll be turning 4 this autumn. Obviously I'm writing everything down and keeping my ears open. Everyone he spends time with is open-minded and knows how to handle potential memories without pushing. I'm just grateful that it seems to be part of a natural process and (so far) hasn't been associated with any significant trauma.
One final sweet observation which may or may not be related to past lives: for the first six months or so after my baby was born, my older son greeted him each morning with the exclamation "[Name]! I'm so happy I found you!" An odd turn of phrase, but I'm not convinced it's past-life related. Regardless, it always brought a smile to my face.
Approximately one year ago, my son began speaking of people, places, and events that appear to be from another life. He first spoke of this life at bedtime one evening. I read him “Harold and the Purple Crayon.” This is a midcentury children’s classic. Our version is a very small boardbook. After we finished, he said that he had the book “before,” but that it was bigger and made of paper. He described a bookshelf in a yellow house with cats where “the father” lived, and a shelf full of toys for the cats. He was very animated during this recollection and spoke at length. He also mentioned that either he or the father drove a truck. I didn’t ask too many questions, although the way he was speaking immediately caught my attention. It did not seem to be a usual flight of imagination, more like he was describing something that actually happened. The only detail I doubt has to do with the truck, since he loves trucks and often incorporates them into his play.
Every few days after that, he spoke of this past life, usually at bedtime or when driving in the car, but also during playtime. He speaks spontaneously and rarely answers simple, non-leading questions. His recollections are occasionally punctuated with the statement “when I was old” or “when I was bigger.” The main characters in his recollection are “the Father” and “my boy.” He once or twice mentioned “my boy and the girls.” I once asked if there was a mommy, and he pet my hair and said “she has brown hair like you.”
Over the months, I’ve gleaned a fair amount of information about this lifetime. He told me that he was a painter (like a workman, not an artist.) He told me “I miss paining.” The father built a treehouse. The father had a beard, and when he “got very old” his hair turned “white and crinkly.”
He speaks often of the yellow house, noting on one occasion that “my boy’s yellow house is so far away.” With respect to “the boy,” he’s said that “there were holly trees at my boy’s house, but a truck came and pulled them up. Now they’re all gone.” He said the father used to put out a skeleton for Halloween, but the boy was afraid of it. His boy used to use solder in a workshop. His boy had a big Christmas tree with lots of lights. He sadly noted, on one occasion, “I can’t go to my boy’s yellow house anymore.” Confusingly, he sometimes acted as though his boy lives in our neighborhood, almost as though he's jumbling up his memories and his current environment.
He also talked about these memories with my husband, to the extent that my skeptical husband has become a bit of a believer. Apparently, my husband was explaining daylight savings and mentioned Chicago to my son. My son then offered: “My boy told me Chicago is dangerous. It’s a bad town.” My husband found this statement quite bizarre, both in substance and in the way my son spoke.
It’s always apparent when he’s speaking of this life because of “my boy,” “the father,” and “the yellow house.” I still can’t determine the relationship between my son, the father, and “his” boy. I’ve also never been able to get a name or identifying features. After three or four months of regular recollections, his memories subsided for a time.
Then, about six months later, he began speaking of different characters, specifically a girl named “Cynthia”. I couldn’t tell if these memories were related to the earlier ones or if they were connected to a different lifetime altogether. Since his language skills continue to improve, he was able to share more complex stories. He also seemed to distinguish a bit more clearly between his current life and his past life. For example, he often prefaced his more recent memories with “when I was older” or “when I was a big boy.” He has told me that Cynthia had a baby, but she didn’t have any of the equipment we use with our own baby. He wanted to give some of our baby’s old toys “to Cynthia because she needs it for her baby.” He tried to explain to me a game played with bales of hay.
Another time, we were playing in the yard and apropos of nothing he told me: "“When I was older, when I was a big boy, I walked to school by myself and I saw a green wall with a green tree growing on it. I thought it was growing on the wall, but it was actually behind the wall. The wall was green and the tree was green.” For some reason, he thought this was very funny. He also mentioned Cynthia.
One day, we had the most incredible conversation. He spontaneously told me that “Cynthia’s not a kid. She’s a grown up. I don’t know where her house is anymore. It’s far far away.” From our past conversations, I had the impression that he often remembered Cynthia as a little girl, so I asked if Cynthia grew up. He said, “She was a little girl, then she was a woman when she grew up. She got older and older and older. She got very old and sick. Then she was dead. Cynthia died. I was there. I was very sad. I don’t know if I can see her again.” I asked him why not. “She got buried,” he said, “She would be all yucky.”
For the first time, he did seem to be a bit disturbed by his memories. Perhaps he had not remembered that the people in his memories were dead prior to this moment. Up to this point, I’d simply listened to his stories, expressed interest in hearing them, and very very occasionally attempted an open-ended question (he usually stopped talking if I asked questions, so generally I refrained and just let him say whatever he wanted to say.) Given his distress, I thought it appropriate to tell him that there was always a chance he would meet Cynthia again, but she wouldn’t be the same. She would be a new person with a new mommy and daddy, just like he was himself and lived in our family now. If he ever met her again, she would have a new body that wouldn’t be the same as the one that had been buried. This seemed to comfort him.
After a few minutes of silence, he had more to say. He told me that he “was Cynthia’s daddy.” He told me he worked in a workshop. He also told me “you used to be small.” I asked if I was there when he was with Cynthia, but he said no. Since his recollection seemed so strong, I decided to push a little and ask him who “the father” was. He repeated that he was Cynthia’s daddy, but I still can’t tell if that’s the same person as “the father.” I asked who “his boy” was, and he said, “Well, I used to be a boy, then I got bigger. When I grew up I was a man.” It was wild stuff.
After a few months of frequent memories involving Cynthia, he stopped talking about that life altogether. Interestingly, last week I mentioned that a plant had died, and he asked me what dead means. I found this a bit odd given our conversation months earlier about Cynthia. I explained how living things die, and my son found it quite surprising and upsetting to learn that people also die. This made me wonder if he's in a bit of an altered state when he recalls his past lives since he seems to have an understanding of concepts that he doesn't possess normally. I've heard that children be "trance-like" when they have their memories, but for some reason I expected him to at least remember what he said!
I’ll be curious to see if we go through another few rounds of memories over the coming years. He’ll be turning 4 this autumn. Obviously I'm writing everything down and keeping my ears open. Everyone he spends time with is open-minded and knows how to handle potential memories without pushing. I'm just grateful that it seems to be part of a natural process and (so far) hasn't been associated with any significant trauma.
One final sweet observation which may or may not be related to past lives: for the first six months or so after my baby was born, my older son greeted him each morning with the exclamation "[Name]! I'm so happy I found you!" An odd turn of phrase, but I'm not convinced it's past-life related. Regardless, it always brought a smile to my face.
