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The Healer's Comeback
Past lives, Traumas, Curses, and the Hero Journey.
ISSUE 109 - September to December 2020 - Trailer: https://vimeo.com/454766992
By Itzhak Beery
Nora was late; still heavily breathing as she logged on to our Zoom meeting. I could see in her dark eyes, she was worried.
“Hi Nora, so glad you could make it, and seeing you alive,” I cheerfully welcomed her. “We are waiting for you. Are you ready to guide us on a journey?”
She smiled. “Sorry I was biking as fast as I could. London is very crowded these days,” she
apologized.
“Would it be OK if I tell people how we met?” I asked her.
“Oh, sure!” She giggled. It all started with her mother, Lesley.
Lesley had recommended that Nora come for a few sessions, as she was in a very confusing time of her life. Nora had a failing fashion business and needed to find herself. After a few months, I asked her if she could help me with editing and organizing a book I was working on, which she did, but unfortunately for me, she found a ‘real job’, working for a late-night TV talk show; so we said goodbye, but kept in touch. One day, Lesley called me, frantic with worry. “Can you see what happened to Nora, she is very sick,” she begged.
I stopped what I was doing in my office and entered the ‘other zone,’ and as I did an image arose in my mind's eye.
“I see her on an Island, it is dark, is it Bali?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, she went to Bali,” Lesley exclaimed.
“I see her at the entrance of a small house, no, it is like a hotel, there are two young women in the entrance.”
“Yes, she was traveling with her girlfriend.”
“But in the back, I see a local woman, with a dark face, long dress, black flowing hair, and she is mad with anger. I think she sent Nora a curse with her hands into her stomach; like a bolt of lightning. I think she wanted to kill Nora as revenge.
“Let me see. This is a European hotel. They took her livelihood. Also, a Western tourist molested her daughter, and now she hates tourists, and especially those who reminded her of her daughter's suffering.”
I felt exhausted by the traumas unfolding in my vision.
“Is any of that true? I asked Lesley.
“I'll ask Nora and get right back to you.” Lesley hung up abruptly.
I didn't have to wait long for her call. “Yes,” she said. “Everything you said was right.” I wanted to hear it from Nora, so Lesley gave me her number, and I rang her right away.
Nora told me that she had felt great until that night, when she had a panic attack. Nora had lived in Bali for two years and was visiting her university friend, Claire. They had decided to visit some of the smaller islands off Bali.
Arriving late to the Island, they were relieved to find a small hotel before dusk turned to dark and night fell. Immediately after checking in, Nora began to feel terribly sick, as if someone had punched her in the stomach, and in the following days she felt increasingly angry and emotional for no reason she could define.
She was hit with what seemed to be a stomach bug; and a few days later, she flew back to New York to seek treatment. By then, it was liver failure. She turned yellow, the doctors were worried and put her on the liver transplant waiting list.
She grew sicker by the day, as the doctors searched but found no cause for her sudden liver failure. Over the course of three weeks, she was tested, probed, questioned, and given no medication that might obscure the path of the disease. Her liver's function dropped dangerously low until the doctors gave her about three days to live, and she rose to the top spot on the transplant list. Then, a miracle happened, and a matching healthy liver was found, just before Nora's body could no longer sustain itself. She was scheduled for the operation and needed to see me urgently.
As the head of the ICU department - who was remarkably open to someone doing shamanic work on a patient - and the nurses stood guarding the door, I performed a full limpia - a traditional cleansing ceremony from the Andes - with trago [sugar cane rum], plants, Agua de Florida, eggs, stones and flowers.
Nora's body was puffed, bloated, and frighteningly yellow. She was anxious and in deep panic. We all knew that there was a good chance her body would reject the new organ, and the surgery would fail; but after the ceremony, Nora relaxed and was now ready. We all held our breath as they wheeled her out and into the operating theatre.
The eight-hour operation was a success, however, twelve days later, Nora was back for a second operation to remove a collection of blood clots that had formed and was causing her to bleed profusely from her many incisions.
I came back to the hospital a couple of hours before she was to go for the second operation. Exhausted and frustrated, Nora was at her wit's end. Desperate. I told her I needed her help, so I suggested we simultaneously connect to our spirit helpers during the ceremony. I asked her to communicate with her power animal and ask it to take her to meet the mighty Imbabura Mountain - a masculine volcanic mountain in Ecuador - and embody his strength and grounding to fortify her weakening body.
At the same time, in the spirit world, I quickly connected to the Balinese woman I had seen initially.
I found her standing at the entrance of her house, next to the small European hotel. I greeted her, and told her about Nora's fate and pleaded with her to release this young woman who lay there in this hospital bed from her horrible curse; the only child of loving parents, who meant the whole world to them- just like the Balinese woman’s own daughter.
She was angry and refused. I asked her again to take pity on Nora, and asked her to take pity on Nora’s parents, and explained that they would be crushed if Nora died. I also asked her not to blame Nora for her troubles, caused, as she believed, by Western visitors to the Island. She stood there, defiant. I begged her again. And again.
After a while, I could see her anger cracking and transforming into compassion. She apologised for her misdirected anger. I commended her on her forceful, magical power and asked her to reverse it and use it to aid Nora's recovery. I asked her to direct good healing energy to Nora before, and after, the upcoming operation, and then I watched that short, beautiful Balinese woman, with her long black wavy hair, making prayers, waving her hands up and down and forward, far away in Bali. And then she vanished, simply disappeared.
At the end of the ceremony, I rang my high pitched bell and blew my ocarina close to Nora's resting head. She opened her eyes and smiled. “I feel calm and ready for the operation. I'm going to take the mountain with me,” she said resolutely.
I shared with her my exchange with the native woman. “Thank you. I needed that,” she smiled. The operation was a success, the recovery however, took years, with many ups and downs.
I was not surprised that Nora eventually became a healer, and was now, a few years later, about to lead my group in a session. I recollect an unexpected past life story, shared by her mother Lesley, in one of the sessions I had done with Lesley.
In the past life story, about six hundred years ago, Lesley was shown that she had prepared Nora for this work, but at that time, it had been cruelly disrupted men of the Church. On that day a few years ago, Lesley - slim, with flowing dark wavy hair and dressed in a black top and shorts, befitting a hot New York summer's day - had walked into my healing room.
Her blue eyes were bright, playful, and curious, hiding a lifetime of deep suffering. “I need to be prepared for my trip to Peru: she announced. “I'm going there for the first time to drink Ayahuasca, as I want to cure my chronic depression and addiction to painkillers.”
Little did we know then that this session would reveal a whole other lifetime.
“I have some pain on the right side of my lower back. I think it might be some nasty entities, and I don't want to meet them in Peru,” she told me; so I handed her a jaguar bone to hold between her two palms to check for possession.
“No, you are not possessed” I said; “But I saw possible problems or disturbances with a mother, or a feminine energy.”
She nodded in agreement, and as we continued our conversation, something unusual transpired: a picture - a holographic image - formed above her right shoulder, slightly above her head. It was of a short, heavy-set, round, European woman - with a big bottom - standing in what appeared to be her kitchen. She held a big spoon in her right hand, and was stirring what seemed to be a soup in a big cauldron, on a range. Her light blond hair was tucked under a bright blue cap, and a white apron was tied to her bluish dress, covering her full feminine figure. I took her to be in her early thirties in age. While I continued my regular conversation with Lesley, I remember asking myself, who this woman was, and how does it related to my client? The woman did not seem to have any physical resemblance to Lesley, so I didn’t know why I was seeing her, whether she was an ancestor perhaps. I needed more information.
I asked Lesley about her ancestry.
“Part French, part German, and part Irish” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
It must be France then, I thought to myself. Telling her what I had seen, adding that I thought she might have been a healer, a witch perhaps, making a special brew to heal someone who was sick.
“What does the kitchen look like?” Lesley asked. I described it; small and narrow, with a brick floor, logs walls and a very low ceiling.
“Do they have windows and animals?” She asked. I told her the windows had very small square panes and that there were animals outside.
Then I saw a young man entering the kitchen, walking to towards the woman. He was handsome and had a bushy blond mustache and light hair. He wore drab coloured clothes with a brown waistcoat. I guessed he was the woman’s husband.
Then a girl walked in, maybe around sixteen years old, and looking like a younger version of the mother. I presumed she was the woman’s daughter.
It seemed as if the woman was teaching her daughter to make the healing brew; and they seem to be so innocent and peaceful together, an almost idyllic image of a young rural family.
But then, my body trembled. Through the window I saw, a few people walking down the field road wearing dark robes. Suddenly, the kitchen’s door opened violently, and three men walked in wearing black hooded robes.
“Who are they? Are they priests?” Lesley asked.
I think they are. I think they had come to take the mother and her daughter. I suspected they were being accused of witchcraft.
I had to stop and take a big breath. I felt goosebumps spreading all over my body. I told Lesley I had the sense that this woman might have been her in a past life.
“Interesting,” Lesley said. We had a long period of silence. “You know, it makes a lot of sense.” She said; “ I'm a writer, and for the past few years, I felt compelled to write a book about powerful women, healers and heroines from all cultures who fought to be allowed to become warriors, doctors, midwives. I've got Jeanne d'Arc, Florence Nightingale, Hildegarde of Bingen in the book, along with some less well-known women. I've always been strongly drawn to all things medieval - the art, the people, the history.”
“And you know,” She added. “I have a daughter too.”
I asked her how old her daughter was.
“Twenty-five.”
I asked her if she was pregnant when she was sixteen, the age of the woman in the vision would have been to have had a daughter that old.
“No, but I was when I was seventeen” Lesley said, adding; “And it was too overwhelming, I knew I was too young and irresponsible so I had an abortion.”
I asked her if she was very protective of her daughter Nora?”
“Oh God, yes, but I hope not in a bad way, though.” She replied, laughing.
I asked her about her husband, is he tall, and does he have light hair and a bushy mustache?
“Before I met him, he did have a big, bushy mustache.” She replied. “And you know what's funny; all the women from the French side of our family are short, round, and have huge bottoms.” She added with a giggle.
I went on with the session, and as we were getting ready for la limpia the cleansing ceremony, I suggested that Lesley concentrate on that woman to see if she could communicate with her in any way. I told her I would dedicate the ceremony to the woman I had seen, because I was sure it was a previous incarnation of Lesley, and was also sure her soul, or spirit also needed healing. I felt by doing that we would help heal your entire female line. Lesley readily agreed.
The limpia was intense. Lesley's body finally relaxed and tears flowed down her cheeks. Her face became peaceful and bright, and she started to breath normally.
I thanked Lesley at the end of the session and we embraced, after which she knelt and put her face to the floor for a few long minutes. When she looked up again she said quietly; “I saw her, we spoke, and it was powerful. Thank you.”
Later that week, I got a long e-mail from Lesley...
‘I went that night to bury the eggs and candle [used in the limpia] as you directed, and as I was walking down the street, I thought of how this kind of activity would have had the inquisition after me in a heartbeat back in those days, and in fact, I felt very furtive doing it.
‘Of course, I got busy researching the French side of my family, French-Swiss to be precise, to try to locate a likely time and place of witch persecutions in northeastern France and Switzerland, but was soon overwhelmed by all the names. I realized that there wasn't anything unusual about my past life. For a European peasant woman living between 1240 and 1690, being burned alive for witchcraft seemed to be almost as likely as a European Jew being murdered in the camps in the years of the Third Reich.
I didn't get any strong sense from any of the names of the mothers and daughters being burned together. Still, by this time, the personal tragedy I'd felt during the healing had become so horrifically repetitious and commonplace, that I couldn't feel more awful for any one of them over another. ‘I think the name of my previous incarnation was Marguerite.
‘I'm finding myself at a loss for how to reconcile the extremes of her suffering. How facile it would be to tell her to forgive herself, or to try to remember the sweet part of her life when the end would have poisoned all those memories; if it had been just her who had to endure it, if they'd taken just her, I think she'd have moved past it, knowing what the world is capable of. But for her to witness and experience first, and the agonies her daughter had to face must have been a fate worse than her death. I can see how a mere few centuries would not be nearly enough time to heal those ‘
I replied to her email immediately, telling her that after our session had ended, I had realised that I had forgotten to sense the name of the woman I had seen, so, after `Lesley had left, I had ‘journeyed’ to her, and been told it was Margarita.
So many questions remained unanswered in my mind. Was the vision I had seen really a past life of Lesley and Nora? Was this why Lesley was so interested in women's rights and in writing books about women healers? Was the chronic depression, anxiety, and her addiction to painkillers the result of some sort pf generational guilt and emotional torture she felt for sending her daughter arrested and presumably then sentenced to death.
I contemplated how much of Lesley’s current life was influenced by past life experiences? Was it a coincidence that she had only one living daughter, and that she’d had an abortion at the roughly the same age as she would have had her past-life daughter? And if this was the case, why would the spirit of that daughter return to Lesley's body during this lifetime to be born again of the same mother? I wondered if we are free to choose our destiny, or if are we are merely players in something more significant? Are our previous incarnations always with us even if we do not see them?
Is Nora, the reincarnated soul of Lesley's past life daughter, now taking on her mother's teaching and finally becoming a healer herself, as she was doing in that apparent past life vision?
A few weeks ago, Nora led our group in a calm and beautiful healing process. The members of my
‘Global Shamanic Support Group’ thanked her profusely for their experiences and I had to wipe tears from my eyes.
Five years ago, I could not have imagined this moment. It felt like Nora was finally whole and restored.
Nora was late; still heavily breathing as she logged on to our Zoom meeting. I could see in her dark eyes, she was worried.
“Hi Nora, so glad you could make it, and seeing you alive,” I cheerfully welcomed her. “We are waiting for you. Are you ready to guide us on a journey?”
She smiled. “Sorry I was biking as fast as I could. London is very crowded these days,” she
apologized.
“Would it be OK if I tell people how we met?” I asked her.
“Oh, sure!” She giggled. It all started with her mother, Lesley.
Lesley had recommended that Nora come for a few sessions, as she was in a very confusing time of her life. Nora had a failing fashion business and needed to find herself. After a few months, I asked her if she could help me with editing and organizing a book I was working on, which she did, but unfortunately for me, she found a ‘real job’, working for a late-night TV talk show; so we said goodbye, but kept in touch. One day, Lesley called me, frantic with worry. “Can you see what happened to Nora, she is very sick,” she begged.
I stopped what I was doing in my office and entered the ‘other zone,’ and as I did an image arose in my mind's eye.
“I see her on an Island, it is dark, is it Bali?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, she went to Bali,” Lesley exclaimed.
“I see her at the entrance of a small house, no, it is like a hotel, there are two young women in the entrance.”
“Yes, she was traveling with her girlfriend.”
“But in the back, I see a local woman, with a dark face, long dress, black flowing hair, and she is mad with anger. I think she sent Nora a curse with her hands into her stomach; like a bolt of lightning. I think she wanted to kill Nora as revenge.
“Let me see. This is a European hotel. They took her livelihood. Also, a Western tourist molested her daughter, and now she hates tourists, and especially those who reminded her of her daughter's suffering.”
I felt exhausted by the traumas unfolding in my vision.
“Is any of that true? I asked Lesley.
“I'll ask Nora and get right back to you.” Lesley hung up abruptly.
I didn't have to wait long for her call. “Yes,” she said. “Everything you said was right.” I wanted to hear it from Nora, so Lesley gave me her number, and I rang her right away.
Nora told me that she had felt great until that night, when she had a panic attack. Nora had lived in Bali for two years and was visiting her university friend, Claire. They had decided to visit some of the smaller islands off Bali.
Arriving late to the Island, they were relieved to find a small hotel before dusk turned to dark and night fell. Immediately after checking in, Nora began to feel terribly sick, as if someone had punched her in the stomach, and in the following days she felt increasingly angry and emotional for no reason she could define.
She was hit with what seemed to be a stomach bug; and a few days later, she flew back to New York to seek treatment. By then, it was liver failure. She turned yellow, the doctors were worried and put her on the liver transplant waiting list.
She grew sicker by the day, as the doctors searched but found no cause for her sudden liver failure. Over the course of three weeks, she was tested, probed, questioned, and given no medication that might obscure the path of the disease. Her liver's function dropped dangerously low until the doctors gave her about three days to live, and she rose to the top spot on the transplant list. Then, a miracle happened, and a matching healthy liver was found, just before Nora's body could no longer sustain itself. She was scheduled for the operation and needed to see me urgently.
As the head of the ICU department - who was remarkably open to someone doing shamanic work on a patient - and the nurses stood guarding the door, I performed a full limpia - a traditional cleansing ceremony from the Andes - with trago [sugar cane rum], plants, Agua de Florida, eggs, stones and flowers.
Nora's body was puffed, bloated, and frighteningly yellow. She was anxious and in deep panic. We all knew that there was a good chance her body would reject the new organ, and the surgery would fail; but after the ceremony, Nora relaxed and was now ready. We all held our breath as they wheeled her out and into the operating theatre.
The eight-hour operation was a success, however, twelve days later, Nora was back for a second operation to remove a collection of blood clots that had formed and was causing her to bleed profusely from her many incisions.
I came back to the hospital a couple of hours before she was to go for the second operation. Exhausted and frustrated, Nora was at her wit's end. Desperate. I told her I needed her help, so I suggested we simultaneously connect to our spirit helpers during the ceremony. I asked her to communicate with her power animal and ask it to take her to meet the mighty Imbabura Mountain - a masculine volcanic mountain in Ecuador - and embody his strength and grounding to fortify her weakening body.
At the same time, in the spirit world, I quickly connected to the Balinese woman I had seen initially.
I found her standing at the entrance of her house, next to the small European hotel. I greeted her, and told her about Nora's fate and pleaded with her to release this young woman who lay there in this hospital bed from her horrible curse; the only child of loving parents, who meant the whole world to them- just like the Balinese woman’s own daughter.
She was angry and refused. I asked her again to take pity on Nora, and asked her to take pity on Nora’s parents, and explained that they would be crushed if Nora died. I also asked her not to blame Nora for her troubles, caused, as she believed, by Western visitors to the Island. She stood there, defiant. I begged her again. And again.
After a while, I could see her anger cracking and transforming into compassion. She apologised for her misdirected anger. I commended her on her forceful, magical power and asked her to reverse it and use it to aid Nora's recovery. I asked her to direct good healing energy to Nora before, and after, the upcoming operation, and then I watched that short, beautiful Balinese woman, with her long black wavy hair, making prayers, waving her hands up and down and forward, far away in Bali. And then she vanished, simply disappeared.
At the end of the ceremony, I rang my high pitched bell and blew my ocarina close to Nora's resting head. She opened her eyes and smiled. “I feel calm and ready for the operation. I'm going to take the mountain with me,” she said resolutely.
I shared with her my exchange with the native woman. “Thank you. I needed that,” she smiled. The operation was a success, the recovery however, took years, with many ups and downs.
I was not surprised that Nora eventually became a healer, and was now, a few years later, about to lead my group in a session. I recollect an unexpected past life story, shared by her mother Lesley, in one of the sessions I had done with Lesley.
In the past life story, about six hundred years ago, Lesley was shown that she had prepared Nora for this work, but at that time, it had been cruelly disrupted men of the Church. On that day a few years ago, Lesley - slim, with flowing dark wavy hair and dressed in a black top and shorts, befitting a hot New York summer's day - had walked into my healing room.
Her blue eyes were bright, playful, and curious, hiding a lifetime of deep suffering. “I need to be prepared for my trip to Peru: she announced. “I'm going there for the first time to drink Ayahuasca, as I want to cure my chronic depression and addiction to painkillers.”
Little did we know then that this session would reveal a whole other lifetime.
“I have some pain on the right side of my lower back. I think it might be some nasty entities, and I don't want to meet them in Peru,” she told me; so I handed her a jaguar bone to hold between her two palms to check for possession.
“No, you are not possessed” I said; “But I saw possible problems or disturbances with a mother, or a feminine energy.”
She nodded in agreement, and as we continued our conversation, something unusual transpired: a picture - a holographic image - formed above her right shoulder, slightly above her head. It was of a short, heavy-set, round, European woman - with a big bottom - standing in what appeared to be her kitchen. She held a big spoon in her right hand, and was stirring what seemed to be a soup in a big cauldron, on a range. Her light blond hair was tucked under a bright blue cap, and a white apron was tied to her bluish dress, covering her full feminine figure. I took her to be in her early thirties in age. While I continued my regular conversation with Lesley, I remember asking myself, who this woman was, and how does it related to my client? The woman did not seem to have any physical resemblance to Lesley, so I didn’t know why I was seeing her, whether she was an ancestor perhaps. I needed more information.
I asked Lesley about her ancestry.
“Part French, part German, and part Irish” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
It must be France then, I thought to myself. Telling her what I had seen, adding that I thought she might have been a healer, a witch perhaps, making a special brew to heal someone who was sick.
“What does the kitchen look like?” Lesley asked. I described it; small and narrow, with a brick floor, logs walls and a very low ceiling.
“Do they have windows and animals?” She asked. I told her the windows had very small square panes and that there were animals outside.
Then I saw a young man entering the kitchen, walking to towards the woman. He was handsome and had a bushy blond mustache and light hair. He wore drab coloured clothes with a brown waistcoat. I guessed he was the woman’s husband.
Then a girl walked in, maybe around sixteen years old, and looking like a younger version of the mother. I presumed she was the woman’s daughter.
It seemed as if the woman was teaching her daughter to make the healing brew; and they seem to be so innocent and peaceful together, an almost idyllic image of a young rural family.
But then, my body trembled. Through the window I saw, a few people walking down the field road wearing dark robes. Suddenly, the kitchen’s door opened violently, and three men walked in wearing black hooded robes.
“Who are they? Are they priests?” Lesley asked.
I think they are. I think they had come to take the mother and her daughter. I suspected they were being accused of witchcraft.
I had to stop and take a big breath. I felt goosebumps spreading all over my body. I told Lesley I had the sense that this woman might have been her in a past life.
“Interesting,” Lesley said. We had a long period of silence. “You know, it makes a lot of sense.” She said; “ I'm a writer, and for the past few years, I felt compelled to write a book about powerful women, healers and heroines from all cultures who fought to be allowed to become warriors, doctors, midwives. I've got Jeanne d'Arc, Florence Nightingale, Hildegarde of Bingen in the book, along with some less well-known women. I've always been strongly drawn to all things medieval - the art, the people, the history.”
“And you know,” She added. “I have a daughter too.”
I asked her how old her daughter was.
“Twenty-five.”
I asked her if she was pregnant when she was sixteen, the age of the woman in the vision would have been to have had a daughter that old.
“No, but I was when I was seventeen” Lesley said, adding; “And it was too overwhelming, I knew I was too young and irresponsible so I had an abortion.”
I asked her if she was very protective of her daughter Nora?”
“Oh God, yes, but I hope not in a bad way, though.” She replied, laughing.
I asked her about her husband, is he tall, and does he have light hair and a bushy mustache?
“Before I met him, he did have a big, bushy mustache.” She replied. “And you know what's funny; all the women from the French side of our family are short, round, and have huge bottoms.” She added with a giggle.
I went on with the session, and as we were getting ready for la limpia the cleansing ceremony, I suggested that Lesley concentrate on that woman to see if she could communicate with her in any way. I told her I would dedicate the ceremony to the woman I had seen, because I was sure it was a previous incarnation of Lesley, and was also sure her soul, or spirit also needed healing. I felt by doing that we would help heal your entire female line. Lesley readily agreed.
The limpia was intense. Lesley's body finally relaxed and tears flowed down her cheeks. Her face became peaceful and bright, and she started to breath normally.
I thanked Lesley at the end of the session and we embraced, after which she knelt and put her face to the floor for a few long minutes. When she looked up again she said quietly; “I saw her, we spoke, and it was powerful. Thank you.”
Later that week, I got a long e-mail from Lesley...
‘I went that night to bury the eggs and candle [used in the limpia] as you directed, and as I was walking down the street, I thought of how this kind of activity would have had the inquisition after me in a heartbeat back in those days, and in fact, I felt very furtive doing it.
‘Of course, I got busy researching the French side of my family, French-Swiss to be precise, to try to locate a likely time and place of witch persecutions in northeastern France and Switzerland, but was soon overwhelmed by all the names. I realized that there wasn't anything unusual about my past life. For a European peasant woman living between 1240 and 1690, being burned alive for witchcraft seemed to be almost as likely as a European Jew being murdered in the camps in the years of the Third Reich.
I didn't get any strong sense from any of the names of the mothers and daughters being burned together. Still, by this time, the personal tragedy I'd felt during the healing had become so horrifically repetitious and commonplace, that I couldn't feel more awful for any one of them over another. ‘I think the name of my previous incarnation was Marguerite.
‘I'm finding myself at a loss for how to reconcile the extremes of her suffering. How facile it would be to tell her to forgive herself, or to try to remember the sweet part of her life when the end would have poisoned all those memories; if it had been just her who had to endure it, if they'd taken just her, I think she'd have moved past it, knowing what the world is capable of. But for her to witness and experience first, and the agonies her daughter had to face must have been a fate worse than her death. I can see how a mere few centuries would not be nearly enough time to heal those ‘
I replied to her email immediately, telling her that after our session had ended, I had realised that I had forgotten to sense the name of the woman I had seen, so, after `Lesley had left, I had ‘journeyed’ to her, and been told it was Margarita.
So many questions remained unanswered in my mind. Was the vision I had seen really a past life of Lesley and Nora? Was this why Lesley was so interested in women's rights and in writing books about women healers? Was the chronic depression, anxiety, and her addiction to painkillers the result of some sort pf generational guilt and emotional torture she felt for sending her daughter arrested and presumably then sentenced to death.
I contemplated how much of Lesley’s current life was influenced by past life experiences? Was it a coincidence that she had only one living daughter, and that she’d had an abortion at the roughly the same age as she would have had her past-life daughter? And if this was the case, why would the spirit of that daughter return to Lesley's body during this lifetime to be born again of the same mother? I wondered if we are free to choose our destiny, or if are we are merely players in something more significant? Are our previous incarnations always with us even if we do not see them?
Is Nora, the reincarnated soul of Lesley's past life daughter, now taking on her mother's teaching and finally becoming a healer herself, as she was doing in that apparent past life vision?
A few weeks ago, Nora led our group in a calm and beautiful healing process. The members of my
‘Global Shamanic Support Group’ thanked her profusely for their experiences and I had to wipe tears from my eyes.
Five years ago, I could not have imagined this moment. It felt like Nora was finally whole and restored.