Jadeswan
Member
Slowly I relax as I visualize colors and a hallway. In a process which is becoming more familiar to me, I place my hand on a map. This time I am taken to England. Without hesitation I respond that the year is 1648. It leaps to my mind with compelling clarity. I am a young woman of about twenty with light skin, blue-gray eyes and curly black hair. I am wearing a simple but well-made dress of blue linen. I am in the midst of a beautiful meadow. I have a basket on my arm and I am gathering yarrow stalks and placing them in my basket. I have a small curved knife to help me cut them. Nearby is the ruin of an old stone barn or farmhouse. I finish gathering the herb and walk down a dirt road. On the outskirts of a village is a pleasant, roomy cottage. There are climbing roses growing over it. I live there with my housekeeper who is an older woman, a distant cousin of some sort. Both of my parents are dead. My father was fairly well-to-do and left me a comfortable amount of money. I enter the house and pass through the kitchen where copper pots and pans are hanging on the wall. There is a window with glass in it. I seem to take pleasure in that. Upstairs is my own room and I sit at a little desk. I pull out sheets of heavy paper and began to write with a dip pen. The scratching sound it makes is very soothing. I am making a little book of herbs and their uses. I don't recall how I came to be educated except that it had something to do with my father. I may have helped him keep his accounts in the absence of a son and heir.
Time passes and I carry my little homemade book out into the garden. A minister comes to see me. I receive him politely. I don't know him but I seem to have heard of him. Apparently he has heard of me as well and of the remedies and little spells I sometimes distribute to people in the village for various hurts and illnesses. He looks at the little book in my hand and tells me it is of the devil and I must burn it. I laugh in astonishment. I am so completely dumbfounded I don't even know what to say to him. I feel my heart is pure and innocent and that my book is good, not evil. He tells me I am not welcome at the church and leaves.
At first everything goes on the same but then I begin to notice that no one has come to call or ask advice in a long time. It is very unusual and I am troubled by it. One night I awake to the smell of smoke. The house is on fire! My housekeeper and I manage to escape but my cottage burns to the ground with everything in it. I am able to save only two things---a gold locket and my little book. Instead of taking me in after the fire my neighbors shout and throw stones at me. I am so bewildered. I don't know where to go or what to do. I have always been a part of a community and my community has betrayed me. My housekeeper leaves town to live with some other family members of hers but she must have managed to find me some clothes because at least I am decently arrayed again rather than just wearing my nightgown. I set off down the dirt road alone. Along the way I meet a young man on horseback. He is tall and handsome with blond hair and blue eyes. He asks about my welfare and when he finds I have nowhere to go he offers to escort me to the nearest inn. I am too embarrassed to tell him I have no money and I think I will simply sneak away once we get to the inn but when we get there he pays for my room without consulting me. I know it is all rather improper but I am so grateful I cannot demure. He doesn't say a word about paying for it and neither do I. He takes a separate room and we part. Early the next morning the people in the inn began shouting and the innkeeper comes to tell me I must leave at once. He doesn't seem harsh and I know he is speaking for my own good. I leave out a back way. As I stumble along crying, there is the young man on his horse again. He boosts me up behind him and we ride away from the shouts at the inn. He takes me to a large stone building that is his home. His parents are very stiff and very polite. They obviously do not want me anywhere near him. I cannot remember if they allow me to spend one night or only serve me a meal but whichever it is I am soon sent on my way. I see nothing more of the young man.
I continue on my way. I don't know if it has been hours or days or weeks. I am so alone and worst of all, I have no occupation, no usefulness, no place in the world. Just as I am beginning to despair I come upon a village where a battle has been fought. They have set up a makeshift hospital in a barn or a church or perhaps both. Suddenly I am needed. The people care nothing for my background except that I know something of caring for wounds. The scenes are heartbreaking but once again I am strong because I am needed. In the course of caring for the men I come across a soldier who has lost a hand. It is bleeding profusely and someone says he won't likely make it. I look down at him and the room tips a little. Something makes my heart beat fast. I bring yarrow, comfrey and bandages. I make poultices and bind up his stump tightly. After that, although I continue caring for all the men I come to him whenever I have a spare moment. There is something that draws me to him. I don't know how long I am there but the men gradually begin to leave. Some die but others get well and go home or back to battle, I suppose, depending on their condition. The man with one hand recovers and one day he is ready to leave in a borrowed cart. He is a man of few words and all he says to me is something like "Come with me. I'll take care of ye." I gather my few belongings and climb in beside him without a word. We travel some distance to where he was living before war broke out and we were married. He had a small cottage and had been a blacksmith. That was over now. I took in sewing, spinning and weaving and he gathered and sold firewood to make a living. It was a difficult life and I sometimes missed the elegance and comfort of my beautiful, rose-covered cottage. At times I felt degraded by the rude surroundings. I didn't blame him though. It was nothing either of us could help. We didn't have children of our own but one day a little boy of about five years old turned up out of nowhere. No one claimed him so my husband and I kept him as our own.
Time passes and I carry my little homemade book out into the garden. A minister comes to see me. I receive him politely. I don't know him but I seem to have heard of him. Apparently he has heard of me as well and of the remedies and little spells I sometimes distribute to people in the village for various hurts and illnesses. He looks at the little book in my hand and tells me it is of the devil and I must burn it. I laugh in astonishment. I am so completely dumbfounded I don't even know what to say to him. I feel my heart is pure and innocent and that my book is good, not evil. He tells me I am not welcome at the church and leaves.
At first everything goes on the same but then I begin to notice that no one has come to call or ask advice in a long time. It is very unusual and I am troubled by it. One night I awake to the smell of smoke. The house is on fire! My housekeeper and I manage to escape but my cottage burns to the ground with everything in it. I am able to save only two things---a gold locket and my little book. Instead of taking me in after the fire my neighbors shout and throw stones at me. I am so bewildered. I don't know where to go or what to do. I have always been a part of a community and my community has betrayed me. My housekeeper leaves town to live with some other family members of hers but she must have managed to find me some clothes because at least I am decently arrayed again rather than just wearing my nightgown. I set off down the dirt road alone. Along the way I meet a young man on horseback. He is tall and handsome with blond hair and blue eyes. He asks about my welfare and when he finds I have nowhere to go he offers to escort me to the nearest inn. I am too embarrassed to tell him I have no money and I think I will simply sneak away once we get to the inn but when we get there he pays for my room without consulting me. I know it is all rather improper but I am so grateful I cannot demure. He doesn't say a word about paying for it and neither do I. He takes a separate room and we part. Early the next morning the people in the inn began shouting and the innkeeper comes to tell me I must leave at once. He doesn't seem harsh and I know he is speaking for my own good. I leave out a back way. As I stumble along crying, there is the young man on his horse again. He boosts me up behind him and we ride away from the shouts at the inn. He takes me to a large stone building that is his home. His parents are very stiff and very polite. They obviously do not want me anywhere near him. I cannot remember if they allow me to spend one night or only serve me a meal but whichever it is I am soon sent on my way. I see nothing more of the young man.
I continue on my way. I don't know if it has been hours or days or weeks. I am so alone and worst of all, I have no occupation, no usefulness, no place in the world. Just as I am beginning to despair I come upon a village where a battle has been fought. They have set up a makeshift hospital in a barn or a church or perhaps both. Suddenly I am needed. The people care nothing for my background except that I know something of caring for wounds. The scenes are heartbreaking but once again I am strong because I am needed. In the course of caring for the men I come across a soldier who has lost a hand. It is bleeding profusely and someone says he won't likely make it. I look down at him and the room tips a little. Something makes my heart beat fast. I bring yarrow, comfrey and bandages. I make poultices and bind up his stump tightly. After that, although I continue caring for all the men I come to him whenever I have a spare moment. There is something that draws me to him. I don't know how long I am there but the men gradually begin to leave. Some die but others get well and go home or back to battle, I suppose, depending on their condition. The man with one hand recovers and one day he is ready to leave in a borrowed cart. He is a man of few words and all he says to me is something like "Come with me. I'll take care of ye." I gather my few belongings and climb in beside him without a word. We travel some distance to where he was living before war broke out and we were married. He had a small cottage and had been a blacksmith. That was over now. I took in sewing, spinning and weaving and he gathered and sold firewood to make a living. It was a difficult life and I sometimes missed the elegance and comfort of my beautiful, rose-covered cottage. At times I felt degraded by the rude surroundings. I didn't blame him though. It was nothing either of us could help. We didn't have children of our own but one day a little boy of about five years old turned up out of nowhere. No one claimed him so my husband and I kept him as our own.
I wonder if a person might experience a past life memory under stress if the stress was similar to the kind experienced in the memory but that is just speculation. 