Another Past Life Recall Experience

Egypt

I’m in ancient Egypt. But actually, I’m lying on a couch in Waynesboro, Virginia, at the home of a regressionist.

The year is 1977.

I don’t recall his name. I’ve come to find out more about my past lives. His technique is rather unusual. He sits on the floor beside me, offering me only the simple suggestion to “go back in time.”

Gently, he rubs my thumb with his finger over and over again. He rubs, and I wait for something to happen. Minutes go by. I’ve paid $40 for this thumb rubbing, is all I can think of. Nothing is happening.

I feel myself getting exasperated. I’m about to get up and put an end to this futile exercise, when suddenly a scene appears before my inner eye.

I see myself standing outside a dome shaped building made of crude brick, or what seems to be brick. The structure is about twenty feet high and shaped something like a beehive. There are no windows, only a single door. I am standing there as if I am guarding the entrance to the beehive. A thought tells me this building is a granary.

I am in ancient Egypt. I see myself in a costume similar to images I’ve seen in museums. I am wearing the clothing of an official. I sense myself as an agent of the Pharaoh, in charge of the food supply.

Outside the building a large crowd has gathered. They are imploring me to let them into the granary. They are starving. We are in a time of famine. Drought has been the situation now for several years. Life is hard and bitter.

My job is to make sure the stored food is well protected and dispensed only to those who are registered with the governing authority. These are the people who over the years paid their taxes with valuables such as precious metals, or in kind, meaning a portion of their harvests in grain deposits.

Only those are allowed to take food from the storehouse. These others who are imploring me for grain, have no right to it. They failed to comply with the requirements, and now they are suffering. Indeed, they are dying.

And I must stand there and refuse them food. It is my job, my responsibility. Should I not do my duty, I fear the consequences, not even knowing what exactly would happen to me.

I am ashamed of myself for having to refuse these people. Day after day, they come imploring me. I think of running away. But what would become of my family. What would happen to them? I feel myself to be in an impossible situation. How did this happen to me? I had enjoyed a prestigious position. I had learned the techniques of preserving the grain, of preventing vermin from entering the buildings and destroying our insurance against famine times. I was a model figure in our circle, supporting my family and serving the population and the Pharaoh with dignity and loyalty.

Loyalty, I considered the hallmark of my life. And now, I felt I was betraying the people. Some of the people. I was beginning to hate them, to despise them for not having done the right thing when they could have. But in my heart I knew that they had always been poor and had not been fully able to part with the little they had to give to the storehouse what was the Pharaoh’s due.

Lying on the couch in Waynesboro, I squirmed in anguish over my plight. I saw myself shrinking. My soul was shrinking. My life became ever more darker. A guilty conscience permeated my entire existence.

And with that last thought, the session came to an abrupt close. I groaned and opened my eyes. The man whose house I was in, got up from the floor. He neither asked me how I felt, nor what had transpired during that half hour or perhaps longer time in which I visited a past existence. He waited for me to get to my feet, then ushered me out the front door, inviting me to return whenever I wished.

I thanked him and left, never to come back.

Margot had come with me. I’m sure I was aware of her presence. Yet, possibly because of the mental anguish I had undergone, for some reason, I didn’t see her. Only after I was in the car, did I realize she had left the house with me and was now sitting beside me as I silently steered home, an hour’s drive up the Shenandoah Valley, immersed in a mood I can only describe as something like bereavement. I was in mourning over my past life.