I had the pleasure of talking with a superb musician, whose performances I witness 3 times each year at an ancient stone church in Westchester, NY. I asked him what it was like to be born a child prodigy. He told me briefly that it was odd. He recounted that at age 3, he had picked up a violin and begun to play, to the amazement of his parents and himself. As he put it, “I knew I should not be able to play the violin and yet I could.” Now in his 50’s he said the experience of playing today was quite normal. Like Merlin of lore, born to the virgin impregnated by the incubus, this musician has lived at least some of his life backwards when compared to what we think a child’s life should be like. I listened to his story and found it fascinating!
In ancient times some might have declared this child prodigy “possessed” and feared that the devil had control of his soul! Today we do not fear a person like him but we simply call him a “child prodigy” and walk away smiling ignorantly because we choose to believe we have no other explanation! This is however chosen ignorance, because the answer to this riddle disturbs our “acceptable” view of reality. As a society, from scientist to ditch digger, we don’t like change! We want to believe in pure innocence at childhood or for religious beliefs we will not accept the concept of reincarnation. The religious conflict I find most puzzling as it appears that there is no conflict. If a child is born with a submerged memory of a previous life, it is not that life reborn but the soul’s journey through God’s world. After all why should a soul not be the power behind many lives and yet the people and their lives be lived but once? Well, lets not dwell on the theology but consider that if you can allow the thought, what would the consequences be of reincarnation? How would people appear different? How might we all benefit from this?
The conversation with my friend the musician did not leave my mind a year later and it does not now. It echoed somewhere in the back of my mind as if in an endless vault. Its astounding reverberations were rebounding off the walls of space-time seeking a long forgotten harmony born before me but still of me. Then this morning on the verge of awareness but still asleep, I recalled being 3 years old. Unlike the violin virtuoso, I did not pick up a violin and play it; but, I did prefer to talk with the old people, rather than children my age and it made me think about why? Then i recalled an early event in my life….
It was late in the afternoon on a Sunday in Brooklyn NY. The plastic covered burgundy fabric of my mothers mahogany furniture gave of a faint aroma of unpleasant chemistry as guests arrived and sat upon the very comfortable chair and couches we were judiciously trained not to ever touch. Silver serving trays of candies, cookies and cakes ensconced on glass covered tables were abundant. Below the glass, engraved with mystical gold leaf swirls and flowers, were the artwork that my mother was proud to own. The scent of special cookies I had once eaten made my mouth water as their magical raspberry aroma floated through the room beneath cigarette smoke and slowly evaporating moth ball impressions. I had to find one of those cookies! Dressed in my finest Saturday clothes, on this Sunday, I was allowed in this mysterious room as I too was a show piece of my mothers’s handiwork, as long as I was “seen but not heard” as had been carefully explained.
Nothing seemed particularly odd to me as I made myself invisible between the wool covered big bodies that covered the landscape around me, much like the mountains my dad drove us through on the way to a weekend in the Catskills. Then I found the magical raspberry cookie, sitting on a silver tray. A wrinkled smiling face, seeing my fascination, reached for it and proffered this culinary gift to my drooling mouth. I took it eagerly and as I bit into its explosion of purple and sweetness a though struck me, old people were not as dangerous as children! From beneath the large black velvet hat, with a white feather, I would have liked in my collection, peered an oddly friendly face of someone I had never known. Unlike my encounters, exploring our neighborhood block in the grasp of by “big” sister’s hand, this large being did not seem out of control and threatening like the kids who launched off their stoops to confront us, like enraged dogs, if we got too close to their roosts. This being had helped fulfill my gustatory fantasy without even a word from my mouth!
Holding the proffered white napkin under my treasure, in a very adult manner, I hoped not to be removed from the “living room” where no one it seemed ever lived before this day. I certainly had never been allowed there and neither had my preferred big sister. However fear gripped my stomach as my mothers face loomed down to meet mine. To my surprise she was smiling as she said, “this is your Aunt Sadie, be sure you thank her for the cookie. And, be sure you don’t get crumbs in the carpet!” Then in a miracle dropped from Heaven she floated away in her usual graceful beauty and colorful swirling gown to shine her smile and sparkling eyes on another adult who had just arrived. Mom was a thing of beauty but clearly to be feared by little beings like me who did not know the rules of adult life.
Aunt Sadie was now lost in a conversation with a man I was told to call “Grandpa,” who sat to her left drinking sips of 4-Roses as he had explained was the custom of all his sailor friends. I watched as he raised the tiny crystal glass to his lips and observed the deep blue boat anchors and globe emblazoned on his muscular upper arm, below the pack of Camels rolled neatly in his shirt sleeve. Licking the smallest amount of angelic jelly possible off my magical treat, to extend its longevity, I listened in fascination as Aunt Sadie and Grandpa discussed the anti-antisemitism, still rampant in the news editorials. Though I had never seen a slanted newspaper before (they all seemed neatly folded), they both agreed about the columnist’s bigotry (which then sounded like Big Tree, to me). As I listened attentively to one of the few conversations I had ever thought of great value, pictures formed in my mind that made the little TV downstairs look trivial, even though I enjoyed eating my TV dinner as Buck Rogers flew into action. Though many of the names and words in their conversation were at first alien to me, they defined themselves by the neighbors they hung out with in their sentences in quick succession and a forest of ideas grew in the sunshine of my mind. I quickly saw how the huge vines were strangling the trees and energy boiled up in my heart wanting to explode. When Grandpa stopped speaking to sip his magical tiny glass, I could not contain myself and words bubbled forth from my mouth like a fountain as I explained to my Aunt Sadie the injustice of the words of this columnist who wore only right wings (which I could not fully picture). Her mouth dropped open in a smile as she gazed on me with astonishment, as I went on and on with examples taken from the injustice in my neighborhood. Then I suddenly noticed a silence in the room and a cold sensation filled my stomach. The chilling breeze seemed to emanate from the beautiful eyes of the mother I now sensed standing behind me. In my mind I saw a clear image of the glass covered East and West wind cameos carved in alabaster in her library room twin pictures. They reminded me of the energy mom’s words could swirl into the otherwise still air of our sometimes peaceful home. Then just as I expected some unpleasant verbal communication to arise, my father called my mother away for some request she and I did not comprehend. I then noticed that I was not breathing and so began again and as I did conversation resumed in the room and normalcy once again reigned.
My grandpa seemed transfixed with observing me as his eyes wandered up and down my face almost as if it was the first time he was seeing me. Aunt Sadie had regained her usual animation however and she asked me what I liked to read most. I then had the embarrassing task of admitting that my sister was in kindergarten and as I was only 3 years old, I was not allowed to attend school for some reason. So, I told her I did not yet know how to read. She asked me if I would like to sit next to her and be part of the conversation and though I was not sure what that entailed and I still had half a cookie left, I decided the cookie might not last all that long and she might just give me a second one. I looked at my mother for approval but she was having my prodigious sister demonstrate her skills at assembling a puzzle of the United States 48 states, upside down as she had done before to my mother’s delight. Seeing her so occupied made me feel more comfortable and I sat for the first time ever, on the purple velvet couch covered with magical plastic.
It was fun listening to “grown ups” talk. It was not the silly bickering for dominance of the kids on the block. The more I listened the more new words took on meaning as they tried on the clothing of their associated neighbors. I did not however venture to share the pictures they formed in my head but I did enjoy listening and the second cookie Aunt Sadie gave me.
I could not fall asleep quickly that evening. As I lay in bed I recalled the magic of unknown words taking form in my head and ideas summoning experiences I did not recall but seemed to understand and know with familiarity. If a few words could summon up such images, I wondered what a dot could do? What If I started with a single dot and made a line of them, then a square and then finally build shapes out of the 2 dimensional squares I now had in hand, as grandpa did when plastering over lath in the basement he was renovating, I could re-create the world in my head from just a dot and a bit of time. I could understand the meaning of everything I was exploring without going out the door. I was looking forward to learning to read and then write, I did not know it yet but I had learned to be silent and listen. I had learned to create pictures in my head and let them interact much like magnets. This was a special way of seeing a world of ideas would allow me to see things many people did not. I did not know of Merlin the magician then, but had I known, I would have wondered why a three year old would think this way.
What does this have to do with the musician? I think it most unlikely that he simply looked at the violin and figured out how to play its notes as well as create music. Both take a great deal of experience and study. You must first even know what the bow is for and then how to form notes of the strings. Then there is the process of creating sequences of sounds that are meaningfully beautiful. Lots and lots more that just don’t happen because you are a fast learner. I have a friend who specializes in past life regression as a form of therapy. Her name is Saundra Blum. She has recently published a book called FOOT STEPS THROUGH THE SANDS OF TIME. In this book she takes you through the memories of people who experience past lives and down the path of one who described a town and many details of a past life there, that were eventually verified. I am reading INITIATION by Elisibeth Haich. Elisabeth recalls a past life and initiation into a powerful secret leadership society in ancient Egypt. The details of what she recalled regarding teachings about the nature of our world are amazingly accurate when viewed in the context of the revolution coming to physics via Nassim Haramein. If you take the time to read the two books above and view Nassim’s lectures on YouTube or by purchasing his CD’s, I believe there will be little doubt in your mind that all of our souls have lived many, many lives. If this is so, then why don’t we recall it?
This is a complex question that I will not address here in any depth but you can for yourself in reading the materials I am suggesting above. However, in a quick answer I will tell you that I believe we do recall our past lives. Then as we grow into our new material bodies, we are overwhelmed with an incredible plethora of experiences and new sensations to assimilate and comprehend. As a result our associations with the past lives become harder to make. Just as recalling my experience at age 3 and how it related to the musician took me over a year (though I did sense the connection existed), so it becomes harder to recall past lives, when in a physical body surrounded by a very complex and stimulating environment. In addition, it is not socially acceptable to talk about “imaginary friends” or “Imaginary experiences” and that is made quite clear to children in our society, but not in other cultures!
I am not a child prodigy, but I recall and have experienced many things that make no sense without accepting the paradigm of reincarnation. When I awoke this morning recalling the thoughts and feelings of a 3 year old (something best done in hypnosis or the trance like state of sleep), I could not help but feel that the 3 year old I knew was much older than my parents thought.