The Reincarnation Conundrum

For some reason today my mind was honed in on reincarnation. I’ve hemmed and hawed and in public normally claim I’m ambivalent toward the concept. I am, too, though there is mounting documented evidence supporting that it is real. When I stumbled across a site on the subject, and the page cited an interest in hearing other people’s stories, I decided to send in my experience with the phenomenon. Unfortunately the email on the site doesn’t exist any more.

A couple of years ago, I opted to try hypnosis for another issue. I couldn’t afford ongoing sessions, unfortunately, but felt that hypnosis as a therapeutic tool had real value. While doing a search on Amazon for hypnosis mp3 pieces, I came across a session on past lives. I bought it on a whim, dumped it onto my media player and pulled on my headset.

My first session freaked me out. The hypnotist in that session had me go back to a past life and look at my reflection in a body of water, since I had no mirrors at my disposal while I was living in that skin. I saw a red-haired, red-bearded man of about 30-35. He/I was burly and wore a bloody leather apron. I didn’t know my name in that incarnation, but I knew 1) that I was a butcher by trade and 2) I was dumb as a box of rocks. (I’m female in my current skin and have an IQ of 136.) My face and body were different, but I had no question whatsoever that the eyes in the reflection are the same eyes I wear now. I remember myself in that skin, looking at my reflection and wishing I were smarter.

It was a while before I revisited the experience. I don’t remember a lot of my sessions, since for a lot of them I’m asleep by their conclusions. Of the handful I do remember, two in particular stand out. In one I was male and one I was female.

As a female, my life was in the Mediterranean. I was a weaver, married to a man who didn’t love me. I was the one who wove the cloth he sold, and our relationship was one of ownership, for all intents and purposes. While we had two children together, my husband was largely indifferent to me and I adored him. But my weaving was good enough that a minor ruler took note, and as a way to “reward” me, had me given to another minor nobleman as a wife. I hated it. I was miserable because I missed my real husband, but felt guilty about my misery because my children were brought along with me it gave them advantages they would otherwise not have. (I believe the nobleman to whom I was married was gay and had no children of his own.) I wasn’t famous and couldn’t tell you with 100 percent certainty where I lived, though I can tell you it was at least a couple of thousand years ago, and probably more. I know it was the Mediterranean. Part of me says Atlantis, but I didn’t think of it in that way, if so. It had a distinctly Greek feel to it in my memory, so I’m thinking the Greek islands, certainly in that region.

The experiences and emotions of that life in many ways parallel aspects of my current life, enough so that when I was brought out of the hypnotic state I was in tears.

My third notable experience with past-life regression took me to a very different place and time, and this was the one and only such experience where I got a name. I remember being a teenaged boy and working as an apprentice in a printing facility in London in the 1800’s. I knew I had to complete my apprenticeship and was expected to work in the family business once I was done – which was printing, but not printing traditional books or newspapers. It made perfect sense to the person whose skin I inhabited at the time, but confused me when I first woke remembering the experience. That version of me was a normal teen, someone dying for adventure, someone who dreamed of doing something other than what I was expected to do, etc. In a later version of that life I visited my woman, Annie, and our son George. (I couldn’t remember for sure if this was a wife or mistress, though later confirmed that she was my wife.) I walked into a house or apartment, a very (VERY!) narrow row-house. It was extremely dark in the little house when I walked in, which I would realize later made perfect sense. The only light in the early 1800’s would have been from oil lamps, a wood stove or fireplace, or candles.

My name was John Bartholomew, the one and only time I got a name. I had never heard the name before, had no idea that the name meant anything, but I was compelled to look it up. What I found left me flabbergasted.

There was indeed a John Bartholomew who lived in the 19th century and interned with a printer in London. He was a cartographer in a line of cartographers. I have been drawing maps and architectural drawings from the time I was a child. The information about the Bartholomew family is all focused on their business and the family genealogy, so I can’t draw a lot of personal details from what I’ve been able to glean so far. I know that the John Bartholomew whose skin I inhabited was John Jr., who was born in 1831, based on a number of details I remembered in my regression. His son was John GEORGE Bartholomew. He was married twice; his first wife’s name was Annie; the second, ironically, was Ann.

I found a synopsis of the Bartholomew line at The National Library of Scottland: