Spirits in the Bathroom – A Journey Through Past Lives

Introduction

Where do things lead when you manage to get

the Old Testament God Yahweh,

He Who Makes That Which Has Been Made,

and Rudolf Steiner, Philosopher, Scientist, Clairvoyant,

together in an apartment in China …?

It was my second year working and all but living in China. Home was an apartment in downtown Dalian. A young city by Chinese standards, Dalian is the northernmost port in China that doesn’t get ice-bound in the winter. In the past 160 years, it has been under British, Russian, Japanese and Chinese rule. By 2014, it was a thriving industrial city with a resident population north of seven million.

I was employed on one of the world’s mega projects, a mine in Australia, where a lot of the key equipment was being sourced from China. I joined the team in 2011.

In October 2013, the main construction work started in Australia with an aggressive completion schedule: to get the first boat loaded with ore and off to sea within two years. Based on this schedule, the equipment from China was needed in Australia many months earlier than the Chinese suppliers considered practical. Delivering the equipment on time was considered, by many, an impossible challenge. My job was managing the impossible.

Early November 2013, winter swept down from Russia like a General Suvorov cavalry charge. Autumn accepted defeat and stood aside, bringing the general’s impressive run of victories to sixty-one. In Dalian, lakes froze over, footpaths and side roads had a permanent covering of ice. While life slowed in the city, we moved up several gears in the vast workshops charged with delivering the equipment. Many hundreds of people in China were engaged in its manufacture. Specialist parts were coming from Europe and North America. It was all systems go.

Banners in workshops, geared at motivating the workforce, are commonplace in China. In the largest of the workshops where the equipment was being manufactured, one such banner proclaimed, The Customer is God. An interesting turn of phrase for communist China. For a resourceful Irishman, it was a gift. I accepted it. I was the customer’s representative; the God mantle fell on me.

I ran the project like a Biblical God. A mixture of the Old and New Testaments, depending on the prevailing issues or stress levels. A usual day consisted of New Testament understanding and love, sandwiched between two thick slices of Old Testament fire and damnation. The first slice of Old Testament in the morning, the second in the evening – or whenever the situation required. As time wore on, some of the Chinese managers started to call me God.

We worked long hours, seven days a week. Trips home were put on hold. Stress mounted for everyone. God put on a brave face. I don’t get stressed, he lied. Even though we were pulling back the lost time to the point of predicting on-time or even early delivery, God wasn’t doing so well in the quiet of his own apartment in downtown Dalian. By the spring of 2014, sleep was difficult. Many nights I got a tightness in my chest. I knew I had to find a way to turn off, to relax and de-stress. I sought assistance in a book.

My youngest children have attended Waldorf Schools since kindergarten. The hippy school, some people call it. Having been around Waldorf education for some years, I must admit the hippy tag carries some merit. They are a chilled bunch of people. The whole Waldorf school thing was started by a dude called Rudolf Steiner. The first school opened in 1911 to teach the children of the workforce at the Waldorf-Astoria Cigarette Company, in Germany. If Steiner had developed Formula One cars, he wouldn’t have been allowed to use the Waldorf name.

Steiner, or Doktor Steiner to give him his full title, was an Austrian, philosopher, scientist, artist, social reformer, architect, economist, esotericist, educationalist and clairvoyant. A busy man. He founded an esoteric spiritual movement called anthroposophy. I still struggle to say this word. Anthroposophy has its roots in German idealist philosophy and theosophy. Time for a trip to Google-land for Steiner-free individuals. Steiner believed that, through freely chosen ethical disciplines and meditative training, anyone could develop the ability to experience the spirit world; talk to the dead, in layman’s terms. One of Steiner’s better-known books on the subject is How to Know Higher Worlds. I got a copy for a Christmas present in 2012. Two years later, I turned to this book to help me relax.

In recent years, I have got to know a guy in New Zealand who has been studying this book for thirty years, seeking a full understanding of the good Doktor’s thoughts so he can pass that knowledge on to others. Thirty years? In the Dalian spring of 2014, I wanted results in less than thirty days – God can set quixotic deadlines.

Reading and digesting How to Know Higher Worlds to relieve stress is a quantum leap in logic. Steiner had a brain the size of a small planet. In his writing he assumed anyone reading his book had a brain of similar dimensions or larger. Reading it was tough going, even for God.

Each night, I would read a section, then I would adjourn to the floor in the guest bathroom, off the living area in my apartment, to think about what I had just read. I needed a quiet, dark place to do my thinking. In early spring, in a fluorescent technicolour Dalian, where car horns were meant to be used, a windowless bathroom with a heated floor was just the place.

After a lot of reading and rereading, coupled with conversations with anybody who wanted to listen or help, things started to gel. I was making progress. I was more relaxed. I began to follow one of the key lessons in the book: that a person would be able to become free – in the sense of being capable of actions motivated solely by love.

As my stress levels went down, New Testament understanding became more prominent in daily meetings. Even when mistakes were made, the Old Testament God showed his gentler side. An incorrect design of a section of steel could bring forth Yahweh’s words of grace:

If a wicked man (the designer) turns away from all the sins he has committed (scraps the incorrect drawings) and keeps all my decrees and does what is just and right (follows the specifications and redesigns the piece), he will surely live; he will not die (he can continue to have a job on the project).

At the end of a long day at work, which often included time in and around fabricated steel, I was desperate for a shower. Although there was an en-suite in my bedroom, I preferred to use the one in my meditation room; I liked it in there. One evening I was enjoying a long, hot shower when something in the pattern on one of the tiles caught my attention. In another bathroom, in another time, five patterns had meant so much to me. My endeavours at deciphering Steiner’s book had unlocked a part of my mind that had been dormant for decades. That night, the floodgate of memories opened.

1 A Bum Slap in Belfast to Get Things Started

I have no idea where I am or when it is. I haven’t tried to find out. When I arrived inside this woman’s tummy, I decided I would consider my reincarnation a pleasant surprise, irrespective of where I ended up. It could not be any worse than dark, damp, smoke-filled medieval houses in Europe or the streets of New York.

The whole contractions thing has been going on for a while now. As the labour has dragged on, I have been listening to them talking out there. "Any time now, in good time, the baby will decide when the time is right, a good push this time". I am going into a world where time seems to be extremely important.

Over the past nine months, I have listened to quite a few conversations. Many have involved a word I could do without: War. I have heard it used many times. One consolation has been that the references have generally been in the past tense. However, Russia seems to be a concern to these people. A Cold War with Russia has started – whatever that might be. A snowball fight with stones wrapped in the snow?

I keep hoping she will be here. Not my mother, though; that would not work out. Not at all. She and I last parted company on 3 September 1747. It was a Wednesday. It was raining. The rain helped hide my tears. I was a tough guy projecting the I can handle this image. It was time for us to part company. We had travelled together for many years, following her dream. Being the trusty sidekick wasn’t a burden for me; I loved her. While parting that wet Wednesday was a sad occasion, we had experienced it before. We knew that when we reincarnated sometime in the future, we would meet up again.

Fingers crossed it will be very soon. On second thoughts, crossing your fingers as a soon-to-be-born baby isn’t that easy. Fingers, legs, arms, all have a mind of their own at this moment.

I have been back in the physical world once since then. She wasn’t around, or perhaps she was avoiding me. Nah, that wouldn’t have been the story. No matter how she felt about our break-up in 1747, it was unlikely she would hold a grudge for more than a hundred years. She’s not the sort. A one-hour grudge would be pushing it for someone like her.

In my last period in the physical world, I reincarnated to an African-American family, on Wednesday, 1 January 1873; I died thirty-seven years later. I was a girl called Cathy. It was the first time I reincarnated as a female. I didn’t manage it very well. It could have been the circumstances – I arrived into a poor family with more than their fair share of problems. Then again, it could have been me. Throughout my last period in the spirit world, I spent time reflecting on my life as Cathy. Although I knew Cathy was me, I always felt I had let her down. I perceived it as if I had been a third party in the events that unfolded during her short life. As Cathy, I had three children, all girls. Times were hard. I worked at the tough end of the labour market; I was a mother and part-time whore. Prostitution was a dangerous occupation in a city that took the profession and those who worked in it for granted. I was lucky, on the streets trouble avoided me. At home, it was always there, boiling away, awaiting my return.

It was my husband Billy who ended my time in New York. I was afraid our relationship would eventually end in my death. Billy’s violence against me escalated every time his fists took over the talking. I could have moved away, steered clear of the inevitable. Instead, I remained with him, my fear of him kept me there. Billy’s biggest issue was he couldn’t live with me moonlighting as a whore to put food on our table and liquor in his gut. It was Tuesday, 22 November 1910, in one of his fits of fury, that Billy ended my life in our dilapidated kitchen, our meagre collection of plates and cups bearing witness to my death. I hung around for a while to see what would happen. Billy ran away. The girls were fostered out. After they went into care, I left. I didn’t wait to see what became of them. I had tried during my young life, but the fact was, I was never a great mother.

During my past period in the spirit world, I dug deep to find out what had happened to Billy and my daughters. Billy fled to Philadelphia after my death. He died a drunk on the cold winter streets, trying to drown the memory of his violence against me in cheap liquor. In New York, my three daughters all flourished. They grew to be strong women raising families just like themselves. As Cathy, I had suffered many human indignities to help my daughters on their way. Through my reflections, I now know why I had been there. There are no coincidences in this world. I had lessons to learn.

The contractions are getting quicker, this is becoming hard work for both of us. The birthing women sound relaxed, a good sign. It is getting close to exit time. Time, I can use that word, too! Now, let’s see where I have ended up.

Following one long push, some screaming and words of encouragement from the birthing women, coupled with a small pull on my neck, I am on a green cloth that is rough against my skin. There is a lot of fluid around that I would prefer not to be lying in.

‘Ten past nine on the morning of Monday the 29th of October 1956,’ a voice of authority announces. I like the accent; Irish, I guess. ‘It’s a boy, Honor,’ another voice chips in. Softer this time. I remain in the yucky fluid while they cut the cord.

1956. I have been in the spirit world for just 46 years. That is a short time. A very short time. Mind you, it seems longer. Time drags when you are doing nothing but thinking of a past life and the mistakes you made.

I am minding my own business, taking in the room, when suddenly I am upside down. A sharp smack is delivered to my brand-new bum. I yell, loudly – very loudly. This seems to please everyone. What’s happening here? Maybe too much talk of war. Or is bum-smacking a post cord-cutting ritual in 1956? After a quick wipe down, during which I continue to voice my displeasure, I am placed high on my mother’s chest. My mind races through the years. I see her lying dead in this same room thirty-four years from now. I could have done without that vision; it’s bonding time.

I know this person who is my new mother. Her aura is the same bright golden yellow it has always been. Honor is one of those spirits who come back as often as possible. She, or sometimes he, enjoys helping those in need. Spirits like Honor’s are like travelling angels. They are highly developed souls. We call these individuals Higher Beings; it is a good term for them. Many Higher Beings spend their time on this earth in areas of human suffering. Think of organisations such as the Salvation Army and so on. Many of the people you see in these operations are similar to Honor. Spirits who have finished their soul journey, and instead of moving on, they come straight back, willing and keen to help, even if it involves great personal suffering. That’s commitment. While it is great to see Honor, her presence here makes it likely the Cold War they have been talking about is soon going to get a whole lot colder. Ice War.

While the hustle and bustle of the clean-up goes ahead, Honor holds me close. She talks to me, without speaking, a mind-to-mind thing. ‘You have arrived in Belfast in Ireland. You will have to work hard to keep the knowledge you now have. Try not to get too involved with everything you see and hear. Things are moving fast in humanity. Faster than you’ve ever seen before. You will be absorbed by all you see if you don’t make the effort to retain your knowledge of the other world. Stay quiet, observe, but don’t absorb. You will find the one you seek.’

There you go, as I said, Honor and her sort are always trying to help.

My two sisters come into the room when the clean-up is complete. I don’t recognise either of them. The spirit is fading in the older one. She is just five years old and spends her time looking for the box I came in. The younger is three. While I can still see the spirit in her, it is fading, too. Both girls have a turn holding me while sitting on the bed. It is a quick visit, after which they set off about their business, downstairs.

My mother tries to feed me; I’m not interested. I want to take everything in. The room is small, the walls have patterned paper on them, the furniture consists of a double bed, bedside table and a wardrobe with a mirror attached to its single door. The two birthing women are packing up to leave. One is in a blue nurse’s uniform complete with white belt and a white hat. She is young and pretty. The other, a lot older, is wearing a green linen coat with stains on it from when she lifted me up. This must be the one responsible for smacking small children. I am puzzled by the fact that neither of them have any spiritual ability. This is strange. In past experiences, birthing women have always been strong spiritual practitioners. These women are oblivious to me or my mother’s aura.

‘Hey, look at me!’ Nothing.

The one in the green coat tells my mother she will be back tomorrow. ‘I’ll give everything down there a wee check over a’morrow, luv. Mind you, its yer third one, ye’ll know the ropes. It’s good it’s a wee boy, ye don’t want too many girls, they become a bloody nuisance when they discover boys, I can tell ye. See ye a’morrow.’

The next day, I am crying again. This time with a lot more zeal. A doctor, who smokes an odd-shaped pipe, turned up shortly after the bum-smacker, Mrs Green Coat, arrived for my mother’s wee check down there. The doctor looks about a hundred years old, his bushy eyebrows growing over his glasses. He has a wispy beard that runs through his ears to join his unruly grey hair. This is one hairy old guy. He mumbles responses to my mother’s questions. The geriatric medicine man proceeds to load up a metal instrument with a sharp point on one end. He interrupts his preparation to take a long pull on his pipe before setting it down on the table. While a cloud of smoke engulfs me, I am the recipient of what is called a BCG shot. My arm is the target area. I am not sure how long the crying goes on for. This second, unprovoked attack makes the first one feel like a loving pat. What the hell have I done wrong here?

In the coming days, a string of visitors come to see the new baby. Of them all, I recognise just one. My mother’s sister Nuala. She is a Higher Being, just like Honor.

I met Nuala in Wales back in the 18th century. She was a healer who specialised in afflictions of the mind; a small woman with long, fire-red hair framing a pale face with eyes that tracked your every movement. She lived in a house dug into the side of a hill. Well, I assume she lived in it. From memory, every time I saw her, come rain, hail or shine, she was sitting outside. Maybe acting mad helped draw business. Mind you, on reflection, it is interesting she hung out her shingle in Wales. I would have thought a trip up the road to Scotland would have provided more scope for her line of work.

My grandmother comes every day to help with the new baby. Smiling isn’t big on her agenda. She would make a really good sergeant major. Always immaculately dressed, complete with hat and hat pin; the hat never leaves her head. She is a tough woman. On her first visit, she leans in close to my face to inform me that I would have to wait to meet my grandfather. ‘He’s busy,’ she says.

On my third night in Belfast, during a feed, I start a more meaningful interaction with Honor. We don’t speak as you know speech, it is a conversation of the mind. Besides, I am too young to talk, and I have a mouth full of nipple.

‘Why here in Belfast?’ I ask.

‘You know the Celts,’ she says. ‘If they’re not fighting, they have just had a fight, or they are getting ready for one.’

I agree with Honor. ‘It’s who they are. They’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember. Still, I don’t see the need for you and what’s-her-name, Nuala, to be here.’

‘What’s-her-name? I see you’ve started to talk like a wee Belfast boy already,’ says Honor with a soft laugh.

‘Please don’t tell me that,’ I protest. ‘The accent here is terrible. I need to keep looking to see if their mouths are open when they talk. They’ve perfected the art of talking through their nose.’

Honor laughs, out loud. I again ask why she came to Belfast. She gets serious. ‘I’m here to help those who need me. Conflict has changed on this earth. In the past fifty years, killing each other has become a science. But worse than that, with new communications, fear and terror can spread through a community instantly. You know as well as I do there are times when physical violence can pale into insignificance compared to mental violence.’

Again I agree and then ask, ‘So, what have the Celts got to do with this Cold War thing I heard you all talking about?’

Honor laughs, not out loud this time, an inner laugh. Mind-laughing. ‘The Cold War is something different to what you understand as war. There’ve been two world wars since you were last here.’

I am dumbfounded. ‘You mean the Celts started two wars, and everyone got involved?’

‘You need to listen for a while, young man,’ says Honor. ‘The two world wars involved Germany; in the First World War, Germany was in an alliance with Austria, Hungary and Bulgaria; and in the Second World War, Germany was allied with Japan and Italy. In both wars, Germany and its partners fought against most of the rest of the world. Britain, Russia and America were the main players in the group called the Allies that fought Germany and its partners. Tens of millions died in these two wars. Feel it for a minute, John.’

I do. The suffering of millions of souls feels like a horse and cart has parked up on my chest. I have seen a lot of suffering in past lives. What I experience in this moment makes every other conflict I have seen pale into insignificance. I should remind Honor that I am just a baby.

She continues. ‘In the Second World War, which finished eleven years ago, Germany surrendered after six years of fighting. Japan fought on for a while longer. They surrendered after America dropped two huge bombs on them, destroying two whole cities. The Allies, who had stood together to fight against the Germans and Japanese, fell out with each other when the war ended.

‘In what we call the Cold War, on one side you have the Eastern Bloc, and on the other side the Western Bloc. Russia in the east, America in the west. They both have new weapons that could wipe each other out, and the rest of mankind with them. Instead of directly fighting each other, they are each supporting opposite sides in conflicts around the world. It’s a mess.’

I can feel Honor’s sorrow for humanity. Then think of my own situation. ‘So, I might not be here for long once they start World War Three?’

‘They won’t,’ she replies. ‘But it will be more than thirty years before they all see sense. It’s then this Cold War ends.’ Honor, as a Higher Being, can see the future.

In the world today, many people predict the future – fortune tellers and suchlike. Spirits like Honor are different. They could write the next millennia’s history books today. Generally, they don’t share their knowledge. They use it to ensure they are reincarnated into places where they will do good, sometime in the future. Seems to me Honor has come up trumps in that count.

‘You still haven’t told me what part the Celts play in all this?’ I ask.

‘No part. I came here to help people through the Second World War. Not because of the Cold War. I chose Belfast ’cause I could see that, after the Second World War, trouble was once again coming to this island. As I said, the Celts have been fighting forever, but conflict is different now. The new communications I’ve told you about are developing rapidly. When things go dark across this land, everyone will be able to