Bound by Destiny: A Past Life Journey to the Present

Copyright © 2011 by Kathleen Ross.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-4271-3 (sc)

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Balboa Press rev. date: 12/02/2011

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

REVELATION

THE LONG JOURNEY

THE DARK WITHIN

REMEMBRANCE

THE KNIGHT

AND THE PEASANT GIRL

WHAT IS THE ILLUSION?

THE PILGRIM

BUBBLES AND BOXES

AN EYE FOR AN EYE

THE SACRIFICIAL JOURNALS

THE CABIN AFFAIR

TRAGIC TRIANGLE IN PARIS

KARMIC QUICKSAND

THE MONK, THE SHAMAN & THE YOGI

IS IT LOVE OR DESTINY?

CARDINAL SINS

THE LETTERS

THE STRAITJACKET

THE SURRENDER

FIGHTING THE ENEMY

THE CHOICE

EPILOGUE

RESOURCES

To Harold, my forever love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Firstly, thank you to my mentors, Michael Zizis and Janis Rapoport who encouraged me to keep writing. Thank you to editors Neil Dickie, Tricia Armstrong, Janet Shorten and Helene Darisse for their advice and guidance. Thank you to past life therapists Charlotte Morris and Georgina Cannon and also to Jan Archer who showed me the way. Thank you to my friends and family—you know who you are—for all your encouragement and support.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I had difficulty deciding if Bound by Destiny should be classified a true story or based on a true story or even fiction. I didn’t want the book to be taken off the shelves for misrepresentation or be chastised because some of my material had been exaggerated. So, I need to tell you, the reader, that this story is my true story. I must also say that some of the past life stories are somewhat enhanced with dialogue and extra description—just to make it more interesting. But, honestly, the stories are based on factual regressions, which, depending on your point of view, may or may not be true.

Also, there is a danger of remembering events differently, especially when they happened years ago. The temptation to rewrite history is huge. That being said I have done my best, in spite of those who may have a problem with my side of the story, to write about an extraordinary experience that I feel needs to be shared. Hopefully, it will resonate as a higher truth. The underlying concept is that what we experience as tangible reality is the illusion and that the real truth is our inner being or soul which lives on lifetime after lifetime until we reach our goal of enlightenment. In other words, we get more chances to get it right. But luckily, we don’t need to be chained to the cycle of reincarnation forever.

My story is not just about the age-old teachings of rebirth. It is about how remembering my past lives helped me to understand the bigger picture and see my present lifetime—with all its complexities—in a different light. Suddenly, my relationships and predicaments hold some relevance and purpose. Life’s journey becomes rich with many brilliant characters existing throughout time whom I meet again in this lifetime. How fascinating! At least I think so.

Throughout the book, I refer to a meditation technique I learned in 1975, which is Transcendental Meditation (TM) as taught by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. I feel it is necessary to be completely honest about my experience while also sharing the universal wisdom that so influenced my life. However, and to be perfectly clear, past life regression, clairvoyance, clairaudience and other paranormal practices are not part of the TM movement program. I just happened to be born with these abilities.

I begin each chapter with a message from a higher source whom I call Ezekiel. Ezekiel could be my own higher self or my spirit guide or a holy spirit or an angel or whatever description you feel comfortable with. I feel that the messages resonate with a depth and beauty far beyond my mental capacity. I am blessed to be able to share them with you.

I’ll give you a clue to following the past and present life characters in the book. Each main character’s name is identified with the same first letter throughout the various lives described in the book: Kathy and Kateline, Hal and Henri, etc. I also thought it appropriate to change the real names of all of the characters, past and present, except for Kathy (myself) and Hal. It’s better to protect the innocent… and the guilty; or maybe protect me from the guilty. I also consolidated some of the events and shifted some timelines to make the book more readable. The important thing, from my point of view, is how the events through time impacted me in my decision making and direction in life. Eckhart Tolle talks about the irrelevance of our story but hey, the story can be very entertaining and enlightening at the same time. The story’s value is that it gives us awareness to live more in accordance with natural law, go with the flow, surrender to the now, let go and let God, or however you want to express it.

With the telling of my story I offer my light to the world. Let it shine!

REVELATION

Grace Young, an ardent new-ager, is presenting a day long workshop in past-life regression for a bunch of curiosity seekers like me. Once we are all relaxed into alpha state, she attempts to lull us back…

Picture yourself inside a vortex. The vortex becomes a time tunnel. Let it take you back, back to a time ten years ago. Grace’s soothing voice urges me to surrender but I have to admit my body is resisting. My right hand twitches.

As you meet people in your past, you recognize their significance to you. Perhaps the relationship was never resolved. Bring the person into your awareness. Remember the experience. As you meet these people—your father, your mother, a friend, an enemy—send them love and forgiveness, release them into the light and detach. Forgive them, release them into the light and detach.

Before I get too much into that whole scene, I should probably tell you a little about myself. I’ll warn you though, at this point in time, I don’t live a very flashy life. I’m a part-time freelance writer/ full-time mother of three boys, married to a teacher, who if I’m to be completely honest, isn’t my soulmate. I’m a self-professed seeker and could be described as one of those ex-flower children who have tried just about everything in the search for that nebulous nirvana. Meditation, yes. Yoga, uh huh. Self-help literature, of course. Psychic phenomenon, yup. Close encounters of the first, second and third kind, sure. Past life regression? Why not?

You’re travelling back again, Grace continues. You’re now being born. You feel the rush of air as you breathe the first breath. You feel the cold and recoil at the light. Back, back… now you are in the womb, warm and safe and dark. Focus now on the area just below the rib-cage, your solar plexus. Picture it as a porthole. It is a door to another world. Surrendering to the voice would be easy if I could just stop my intellect from getting in the way. It has to analyze everything.

I actually see a circular passageway beginning where my solar plexus ends which is kind of surprising. As I enter it, the energy expands as a time tunnel vortex pushes through a barrier and opens to a seemingly virtual reality. Wow. A light brighter than I have ever imagined permeates my mind’s eye as I wince with the intensity. The light wanes as the movie reel spins back through history. Grace suggests freeze-framing the flashes of experience. I watch the picture come into focus. It’s nothing I’ve ever seen before yet it’s strangely familiar. Is this really happening?

The child I’m seeing is walking on hot sand in bare feet. I feel the burning sensation—I am that child! He’s dark, with black hair and tanned skin. I smell the sweet scent of incense and ripe fruit and hear the noise of shouting voices in the market. The exotic images of brightly coloured tents and lumbering camels fascinate me. The child’s father tugs at his son’s hand as he rushes through the crowd, annoyed and impatient. I know that fear. The scene changes as my hands grip the chair arm, tighter than on a carnival ride.

The new vision hits me unexpectedly, like a fast right to the temple. I recognize the image from childhood—nightmares mostly. Flash! I try to close my eyes tighter to shut out the image. Flash! The woman is bound in a white jacket with a hood, arms wrapped and tied behind her. The walls are stone, hard, cold, stark. The window appears, barred, yielding a single strand of light through the tiny opening. I cry out and double over in pain. A gasp from the student beside me suddenly draws me back to the present. Is everything all right? the woman asks and I utter a feeble yes, letting the image go, not willing nor able to hold on to it. I have to admit, I am blindsided by the emotional impact.

Grace invites someone to describe their experience. Is anyone seeing anything?

Present time seeps into the interval between one life memory and another, as I remember the words, written by Grace for the college calendar, which grabbed my attention and brought me here. Past life therapy can be helpful in a variety of problems, anxieties, patterns or compulsions. It is useful for most anyone embroiled in automatic patterns which we often unconsciously carry out.

Another vision appears. Again the picture is vibrant and I am absorbed into the scene like a transient soul coming home. A fleet of wagon trains is proceeding across the expansive prairie. I am certain it is in the Midwestern United States, yes Arizona, although I have never been there. I become the woman on the wagon, seated in front with her husband. I hold a baby in my arms. The awkward wagons lurch forward. An ambush! We try to escape but the native warriors have surrounded us. God, I’m so afraid, I tell the group. It can’t be the end. I haven’t lived long enough. I must protect my baby.

Try to watch the scene from a distance, Grace’s voice calls to me. Become a dispassionate observer. I feel relieved that I don’t need to live it all over again. No wonder we forget everything.

I continue, less emotional. My husband has protected me and I love him yet he is powerless. The natives are close now as our wagon crashes and rolls on its side. I get caught up in the emotion again. I’m being dragged by the neck. They’re hauling me on a horse. Oh my God, they’ve taken my baby! Where’s my husband? No, please don’t kill him! No! Help us, please help us! I scream.

Grace speaks to me throughout the vision. Incredibly, she is seeing exactly what I see and describes the scene before I can articulate it! Most of the other members of the group are also witnessing the memory. The Indian takes your life, she says. Your baby is captured and taken to the tribe. Remorse overwhelms me as Grace continues. They are basically a peace-loving tribe except when they are threatened. You go to your grave fearing for your baby’s life but he is raised by the natives and is adopted by the chief. As I listen to her observations, I know intuitively Grace speaks a bizarre truth.

Who is your husband in that life? Grace asks.

I reply immediately, surprised. My father in this life."

Who is the child? she asks.

Chris, my son in this life, I tell her.

The snapshots continue, clicking through my mind like a clockwork puzzle: a man sits at a piano playing show tunes; a crowd surrounds him. The songs are American but the people are European. Wartime. Uniforms. Fading… An East Indian dancer adorned in bells and veils, a wealthy sheik’s possession…

I’m a guard, watching a little girl on a train, computer analyst Austin recalls. She is so cute, about five years old with blonde curly hair and blue eyes. I think we’re in Scotland. It’s winter and the train is travelling quickly. I think she’s Kathy. Okay, he just said my name.

Grace describes the scene, "Yes, I see her. There are two sisters. They are very sweet. I think they are twin sisters. They’re from a wealthy family. Yes, their father owns the railway they are travelling on.

I am once again pulled into the scene, but the details Grace describes are not clear. Finally, I visualize a small girl sleeping in the train compartment. I’m on the train after being with relatives over the Christmas holidays and am returning home. The train jerks as we begin to cross the bridge, I describe. The bridge is collapsing. Everyone is running and screaming. The rail cars jerk sideways. They sway, kind of like a spastic snake, then plunge downward into the icy water. As the train car hits the water, I’m killed instantly by the impact.

How do you feel about trains in this lifetime? Grace’s voice carries me back to the present.

I love trains, I exclaim.

Yes, Grace says. That’s not surprising. You weren’t afraid of death, were you? Can you see yourself after you die?

Drawn again back to that lifetime, I witness my soul leaving my body. I’m not afraid. I have completed my purpose on earth and feel a wonderful freedom as my soul rises. I see angelic beings reaching out to me, I say. I hesitate to complete the journey and am sucked again to the earth’s surface. I’m looking for someone. I’m not sure who it is. I see the soul rise, finally. I feel responsible for helping this soul. Our souls stay bound to the earth’s surface for many days until we are ready. We finally rise and enter into a magnificent light.

Austin doesn’t die in the crash, Grace observes. He’s the only survivor. He’s washed ashore and is taken in by someone and eventually dies of alcoholism.

Before the group has time to contemplate, the image of a massive stone building appears in the collective mind’s eye. The room is filled with shadow and smoke and many strange people. Mountains of rotting food atop long wooden tables attack my senses as I gag with the putrid smells. Wood burns in massive fireplaces creating a fog so thick it is impossible to see to the other side of the room. A huge man eating chunks of semi-raw animal flesh sits at one of the long tables surrounded by women and musicians. He is wearing velvet, jewels and gold, his extravagant clothing stained with decayed food and dried body fluids from many such feasts. His body odour is enhanced rather than disguised by the strong perfumes he wears. Remarkably, I recognize that my former self resides in the court of an English king! I realize that although I am devoted to him I am also very afraid of him.

I can’t breathe. Someone in the group sees me as the jester and I try to bring the vision into focus. I feel the king’s eyes upon me and he laughs heartily as I dance. The vision appears of the court jester in an outrageous yellow and green striped costume, spawned from a long line of jesters, soothsayers and wizards, their sole purpose to entertain and appease the king’s impossible tastes. I’m amazed by the clear picture of a time known only in history books—a time only partially represented by limited interpretation. It fades.

Flash! The woman in the straitjacket appears. I double over. The pain is excruciating. This creature is so tortured, so consumed by darkness that I struggle to hold onto the image. I don’t want to remember.

Okay, that’s enough. It’s time to go home.

Grace senses my unease, takes me to the centre of the circle of people and instructs me to lie down on the carpet. My body immediately begins to shake. Ripples of energy flow from my head to my toes as I jerk uncontrollably. I’m coaxed to relax and follow my life backwards in time. I see myself again as a young woman, wearing wolf furs and emerald jewels, seated in a carriage—late 1800’s. In the background, a castle-like building comes into focus, round turrets of gold grandeur. I recognize it as the Russian Orthodox Church.

The woman who was once me is wealthy but very troubled. She is saddened by the announcement her only son has just made to her. He will become a priest.

Austin speaks from the circle surrounding her. He is seeing it as they all see it. She is close to her son, he says. Too close.

What’s that supposed to mean? Never mind.

As I enter the life of the Russian woman I hear her forbidding her son to follow his desire to become a priest. She threatens him and tells him he will be cut off from his fortune if he pursues such a selfish goal. I shake and jerk as my body remembers. Flash. The woman in the straitjacket appears again. It is the same woman—staring behind lifeless eyes.

My son put me in an insane asylum. I try to choke out the words while my body relives years of repressed anguish—feelings of betrayal, abandonment and despair. A shadow remains in my psyche as I recall the details of such a traumatic existence. How can I ever forgive him? I whisper in one breath while in another I sigh, He is my husband in this life.

Oh great, now what?

Let it all go, now, advises Grace as I breathe out the negativity, but the image of the woman in the straitjacket, an image that has haunted me since childhood, remains etched in my consciousness. I become painfully aware that I have begun a journey to exorcise my inner demons, whether I like it or not.

We are falling again, back, back, in time, tumbling across centuries, across continents, before written time. When the scene shifts into focus, I struggle to find a point of reference. Nothing I see in this visualization is familiar. The sky is not blue but hues of gold and violet. The sun, unusually brilliant, illuminates a vista of emerald hills surrounded by an azure ocean, earthly yet surreal. The trees are tropical, similar to palms but more grand and sweeping. I find myself as a young girl, running through the fields of grass and wildflowers, among colours so resonant they saturate not only the sense of sight, but every other sense. If this is Earth, it is unlike any place I have ever visited or even heard of. It is certainly no world I could ever imagine. Trust me.

The girl is laughing. She sings while plucking an instrument, similar to a small harp, in a language of lilting clarity. Remnants of memory from a time so buried manifest clearly in the present. How could I have lost something so precious and why has it taken me so long to know it again? I long to be there. In my awareness another presence is known. This soul is familiar. It is such a fleeting recognition, like a comfortable habit or a warm thought. He had always been there yet I never realized him as a real person, only a feeling or vibration. I love this being. As quickly as it comes, the memory is gone.

Lost in the experience of a sweet child on a continent before time, I hear Grace’s faint voice as it integrates slowly into the picture. She is talking about how this is the land of Atlantis, the final day of its existence and that somehow the once enlightened society has become corrupted and finally destroyed when technology overshadowed the spiritual evolution. I have to tell you, I am there when it happens. We are all there.

THE LONG JOURNEY

The struggle is a universal theme. The only way to be safe from the devastation is to acknowledge the emotion, then detach from it, shifting perception to become observers. This allows us to encompass the infinite bliss of all-knowingness. We can never be more than we are right now. So then, how we evolve is opening to the power of the universe. It is the recognition that we are already there but are mired in the illusion that we are far away. In this human journey you are discovering your subtle and astral self, another dimension finally being revealed, another layer finally peeled away, a burden of the physical lifted. You are coming home.

Ezekiel

The road home is slick with the light evening rain. The cranky Chev rocks with each turn of the steering wheel. I try to bring past faces and places into the present. When I glimpse myself in the rear view mirror, they become superimposed upon the reflection—the brown hair, the clear blue eyes, the wistful smile.

The speedometer creeps beyond 110. Remembering the boys have accused me of fostering a lead foot, I ease up on the gas but the bends in the road are unyielding. I think about what I will say, how I will explain that my lives are non ending and amazing and that my life is changed forever. No one’s ever listened to me before, why now? I sigh.

Deciding to quell my racing thoughts, I slip a cassette tape into the slot until it clicks. I half-listen to Arnold Patent revealing the Laws of the Universe. "Look what I created. Don’t judge. How can I make it better? . . . Whether you accept it or not, you’re only as happy as you can stand to be."

A square button returns me to radio musicland. By the time we got to Woodstock we were half a million strong. Everywhere there was song and celebration.

The fog thickens as I drive, the soft rain hardening to an unseen sheet along the tarmac. The tires hug another curve, but the slippery road disappears and the trees that line the ditch march closer. . . . riding shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies across our nation…

Somehow, I come to a full stop on the side of the road. The rain is so heavy it completely obscures any vista beyond the windshield. . . . stardust, we are golden and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.

I sit in the car and wait as the icy rain forms an opaque sheet across the windshield. The classic Joni Mitchell song draws me back in time and I can see myself sitting on the faded turquoise bedspread, each teardrop restoring it to its original colour. Mom, I don’t want to get married.

It’s only nerves, had been my mother’s response and an hour later I was promising until death do us part to the man who had betrayed me a century before. My son? As if my life isn’t complicated enough!

In any case, it is all starting to make sense. I was so depressed after Chris’s birth and so afraid I might end my own life, I freely accepted the doctor’s advice to take the lithium. I wore the drug like that straitjacket, losing myself to it, allowing it to control my life.

Even as a child, there were times when the pain seemed so unbearable I felt I’d rather die than face another morning. How I wanted my safe, middle-class, Canadian upbringing to be the culprit, the excuse for all my woes. But that has never made any sense. So, where is the despair coming from? Isn’t it a reasonable assumption that I have come into the world already wounded?

I think about the possibilities, the implications. Crazy? Maybe I really am losing it.

When I arrive home Owen has not only prepared his famous curry stir-fry but has also accomplished the admirable feat of congregating our three rambunctious boys to sit quietly in front of a Ninja Turtles video.

Owen surveys my dishevelled appearance. What happened to you? he asks, in his half demanding, half concerned tone.

I sigh. (I sigh a lot these days.) You would never believe me in a million years, I tell him. I don’t even know where to start. I sit down in the kitchen chair that Owen gestures me to use, accepting his silent command. He places the over-cooked vegetable mélange in front of me. My stomach flips.

I tried to keep it warm for an hour. Owen says, reminding me of his effort and that mine is never enough.

Thank you, but I don’t think I can eat it, I’m sorry. I look away to protect myself from his anticipated anger and prepare for the oncoming argument. I see you didn’t save any wine for me, I accuse as I observe the empty wine bottle. Inevitably, any sharing of the day’s experience is overshadowed by the habit of petty disagreement.

What the hell’s the matter with you? Owen demands, this time without the concern.

If you really need to know, I say, in my vaguely sarcastic tone. The roads were really slippery. I had to stop on the side of the road and wait until the rain stopped. I could have been in an accident.

Could have, Owen repeats, his innate scepticism duelling with my penchant for dramatics. He is the Capricorn goat right down to the sturdy build and small beard.

Noticing my distress, he places a hand on my shoulder. Are you okay?

I brush his