When I first toyed with the idea of reincarnation I closed my eyes and thought, "I wonder if I can remember anything from past lives." Three flashes came to me in rapid succession. One of the flashes later was expanded upon in my regression to my life in Kenya. Another flash had an empty feeling to it and may have only been based on an old picture I saw of some ancestors. I'm still not sure about that one. The other flash, however, was so special to me that I kept revisiting it over and over in my mind even as I dismissed it. The long wooden building reminds me of pictures of Iroquois long houses so I suspect I may have been Iroquois. It is early morning. I am lying on a pallet of skins on a packed dirt floor. There are people also lying on pallets nearby and they seem to be still asleep. In spite of their presence there is a feeling of privacy. I am in a long wooden building. I look toward the door of the building. Dawn is just beginning to light the sky. There is a skin or blanket over the door. One corner of it has been fastened back to the top of the doorway and it forms a darker triangle against the rest of the skin through which more light is able to shine. Outside the ground gently slopes upward and there are beautiful, delicately shaped trees growing outside. I feel an incredible sense of peace and familiarity. I know there is someone I love nearby outside and I will see him soon. After I began to completely open my mind to the concept of past lives the second fragment flashed into my mind without any warning while I was washing dishes. I see myself from above. I am a young woman of about twenty with brown skin and dark hair. I am lying on a pallet of skins and a young man is squatting or kneeling beside me. His chest is bare except for the leather strap of his quiver and he is wearing some sort of leather pants or perhaps a breech-cloth with leggings. I know that I am dying from lack of food and he is in terrible grief over it. I'm not sure what happened to our crops or why there is no game to hunt. It isn't his fault but he blames himself that he was unable to find game. His hand is laid on my arm and although he isn't visibly crying, I know he is crying inside. I want to tell him something, perhaps how much I love him and not to blame himself but I am too weak to speak. More than anything, though, I feel his tremendous, all-encompassing, passionate, tender love and the love itself cradles and embraces me as I die.