Читать книгу The Quickening - Gregg Unterberger - Страница 18

What had I done?

“Get me out of here!” she all but screamed at me. All that Greta had seen were bodies: bodies upon bodies upon bodies stacked up like so much cordwood against the cold concrete walls. Her eyes closed, her head twisted about furtively like a tiny bird, frantically looking about in her mind’s eye. “I can’t find myself,” she said with a ferocious urgency. “I . . . I don’t know which one I am . . . Get me out of here!”

“Okay, okay, Greta,” I said, trying to sound calm and focused while I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest. “As I count upwards from one to ten, you will slowly regain full waking consciousness. Here we go: ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .” I recited, not realizing that I was counting in the totally opposite direction, Way to go, Gregg!

It was a good thing that Greta had her eyes closed, or she would have seen every red blood cell in my body rush to my face in embarrassment. In truth, that was the least of my worries. I had never seen anyone react so frantically in a past-life regression. Greta’s sheer panic was overtaking her. I had never once had to count anybody out of a past-life regression because they were overwhelmed by the intensity of their feelings.

But then, I had never done a past-life regression before. This was my first.

Fortunately, I already was a licensed professional counselor, not completely unfamiliar with how to deal with an abreaction like the one Greta was having. I counted Greta the rest of the way out, still counting in the wrong direction, but Greta came up and out of hypnosis nonetheless.

She looked around, her eyes wide, the memory fresh. “I couldn’t find myself!” she said with a thick German accent. “I was looking, but I could not find me!”

It took me a minute to get my bearings and figure out exactly what Greta was talking about, but slowly the tumblers were clicking into place. I had successfully hypnotized her and taken her into a past life.

Hey, at least I got that part right. Not bad for a rookie. I told myself, trying to piece together a few shattered bits of my confidence, but cutting myself on the sharp edges. I had directed Greta to go to an important moment in that past life. But there was no way that either I or Greta could have known where she would go.

She had arrived in a lifetime in Nazi Germany, but not “in” her physical body. Moments before, she had been hung by her neck. Her body had then been taken away to some kind of warehouse for temporary storage along with other corpses. Greta was experiencing the aftermath of her life as a fifteen-year-old Jewish girl immediately after her execution. She was completely confused by the experience. She was deeply identified with her young body and panicked, her consciousness floating over the stacks of bodies trying to find the mortal coil that she had so recently inhabited. But then, it was too much, and Greta, rightfully, had asked me to get her out.

I snapped my fingers sharply, breaking the trance.

“Oh, mein Gott,” she said, choking back the tears as I gave the final suggestion to arrive back fully in the present.

“Greta, open your eyes. Greta? Greta! Greta, open your eyes,” I said in a firm voice. She responded, her eyelids fluttering rapidly, then becoming more present. She was breathing in short, sharp breaths, punctuated with chaotic moans. “That’s good. Greta, look at me. Look at me . . . look at me . . . look at me.” Her eyes finally went wide, as though she was seeing the bodies again. Then the rapid blinking returned as tears spilled down her cheeks. I was grounding her in the here-and-now by bringing her attention to my eyes and a safe presence.

“Greta, you are safe. You are safe. Do you understand me?” Her eyes were still filled with a lingering horror, but she nodded, still unable to speak. She whimpered and perused the room, as if to double-check if the evil was still present. She was here, at least in part.

“What you saw was horrible. What you saw was a horrible past-life memory. It was a very frightening image. And you are safe now. An image cannot hurt you. It can scare you, but it cannot hurt you. You are safe. You are back in Greta’s life experience here, now, in the year 1999.”

Greta took a series of slow, deep breaths and looked around the room, nodding, clearly wanting to believe me, beginning to believe me. The terror was still with her, but gradually she was orienting herself with my help in a large room that contained other counselors and therapists, paired off together, all practicing their brand-spanking new regression skills on their second day of training with Brian Weiss, a medical doctor with degrees from Yale and Columbia and perhaps the guy that was voted in his college yearbook as “Least Likely to be an International Authority on Past-Life Regression.”

Brian, a largely agnostic, obsessive-compulsive, magna cum laude grad, who had authored more than forty scientific articles and book chapters, had his life turned upside down some thirty years ago when he put a patient, “Catherine,” under hypnosis and directed her to go back to when the problem began, thinking she would land somewhere in her early childhood.

His worldview hadn’t really prepared him for a patient spinning back hundreds of years to another lifetime and then having the audacity to heal the more she remembered her past lives. To top it all off, Catherine reported the presence of Ascended Masters on the Other Side, who gave Brian especially personal information that Catherine herself could not have known. It was time to take a personal time-out, and take a second look at the Cartesian worldview.

Brian had to, shall we say, regroup.

All of which led to the 1988 publication of Many Lives, Many Masters—Brian’s international best-seller—followed by appearances on major networks and a string of successful follow-up books. Thus, regression came out of the closet and into afternoon TV, on Oprah, just like vibrators and men on the down-low.

I had seen Brian in person at a number of woo-woo conferences, but he wasn’t woo-woo. He was honest, kind, peaceful, and authentic. He was real. He was funny. (A friend of mine aptly described him as Jerry Seinfeld on Valium. But I don’t think that is his secret.) Mostly, he was totally credible, and I knew I would take the very first plane to his next regression training even if I had to hock the dog. You will be pleased to know that wasn’t necessary; I got enough for the cat.

Oh, c’mon, you know me better than that by now.

When I tell people in my workshops about my first past-life regression, they always ask me, “Weren’t you frightened?” And I always answer like the Wizard of Oz: “My Dear, you are looking at a man who has laughed in the face of danger, sneered at doom, and chuckled at catastrophe. Why, I was petrified.”

On balance, I must say that if your first past-life regression is filled with extreme Nazi trauma like this one, then pretty much anything else after that is a piece of cake.

So, thanks, Brian, for pairing me with Greta. You know how to show a guy a good time.

Within about ten minutes, I had Greta firmly grounded back in everyday reality. She was still very shook up. I asked her if she thought we should go back in to complete what we started. She shook her head “No,” vehemently.

“All right,” I said, attempting calm, moving towards something that might loosely be called my center. “I want you to know that you never have to revisit that lifetime if you don’t want to. Please be clear, I am okay with that. Having said that, your higher consciousness took you to that life for a reason, and at some point you may want to explore that. But that is completely up to you.”

Greta smiled graciously. She clearly understood that I merely facilitated the memory and that I did not cause it. She graciously expressed her gratitude for taking such good care of her. Exhausted, Greta was only too happy to call it a night, and happy to leave that past life in the past . . . until she woke up the next morning with a bright red rash in a circle around the circumference of her neck.

Her body remembered the hanging.

A cold chill went through me as Greta tugged at her collar to show me the marks on her neck. In the pattern, I could almost make out the imprint of the braid of the rope. It was somehow simultaneously horrific and beautiful.

She smiled grimly. “I think . . . we had better go back into that life again.” She mindlessly ran her fingers over the intense red mark. “It won’t leave me alone, I think,” her voice trembled with both anxiety and feigned good humor.

Later that morning, I placed Greta under hypnosis again, but this time I was careful to initially direct her towards a very happy memory in that lifetime in Germany. We needed some context, some background, and most importantly, a memory that wouldn’t petrify her, at least not initially. Her most recent incarnation found Greta on the streets of a major German city, and she was about fourteen years old. It was a bright spring morning and the air was crisp as she walked hand-in-hand with her mother. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air from a nearby bakery, and Greta felt the sun on her face.

The Nazi party was just coming to power, but Greta knew nothing of politics at her tender age. But as she looked across the cobblestone street, she saw a handsome young German officer. He looked so striking in his German uniform, all pomp and polish. He was firing off orders to several subordinates who snapped a salute before quickly leaving to do his bidding. Greta experienced feelings stirring somewhere deep in her body that she had not known before. Awed by his power and good looks, she was staring and caught his eye. Embarrassed, her eyes fell to the ground, but when she looked up again, he was still looking at her. He gave her a brief, if curt smile. She turned her face away, beet red with embarrassment, burying her countenance in her mother’s threadbare cotton coat.

I directed her to go to another important moment in that lifetime. She was perhaps a year older now and once again found herself walking the streets, running errands with her mother. She saw the Nazi officer again, and it became obvious to both of us that this was a daily ritual. She would walk the streets with her mother hoping to catch a glimpse of this man who was her schoolgirl crush.

On this day, Greta watched her dashing young officer from across the street and saw an old Jewish woman approach him. Although she couldn’t make out what the woman was saying, she could see that woman was animated—pleading and begging the young officer for something. Then, seemingly without warning, he struck her sharply across the face, frustrated by her cries for help. She fell to the ground, and he kicked her aside with a frightening nonchalance, appearing anxious to get on with his daily duties. Greta’s hands went to her face, her mouth agape.

Just at that moment he looked across the street and caught her glance and fiercely looked at her as if to say, See who you are in love with? Looking deeply into his blazing eyes, Greta took a sharp breath.

“I know this man. I know this man.” Greta became increasingly agitated. “He was my husband Klaus in my current life. In my current life, he was a good man . . . a good man, but now he is a monster!” Her hand rose to her mouth in horror.

“My Klaus is a monster!”

After using some calming techniques, I asked Greta to move ahead to the next important life experience. Her shoulders contracted, and her expression became grim. Her face was pale.

“It is the moment of my death,” she said grimly, her voice barely a whisper.

I assured her that she was safe to observe her own death, that her soul was eternal and these were echoes or shadows of her past.

“I understand that,” she said softly.

Now, I can look back at the thousands of past-life regressions I have induced since then, and I have been pleased to say that experiencing a death in another lifetime is rarely traumatic and is usually liberating. Very typically, subjects feel no pain and, upon leaving their body, are glad to be free of it, feeling peaceful and even joyous. However, the first few moments after leaving the body are usually an adjustment, especially if the death is sudden and unanticipated. There can be cursory leftover concerns about those who are left behind. But amazingly, most people come to terms with the death of their physical body quickly and have an underlying sense that everyone who is left behind will be okay.

I remember leading a group regression in Atlanta. I instructed the audience to go to the moment of their passing. A heavyset gentleman in his fifties immediately groaned as his chest heaved forward, his head whipped backward, like a ragdoll. I checked to see that he was okay and continued on with the regression. When it was over, I asked him what happened.

“When you asked us to go to the moment of our passing, I was suddenly hit with a spear right through my chest.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked him. He frowned considering the question.

“No, it was more like a shock, a sudden pound on my chest. It wasn’t so much pain as it was surprise. I literally didn’t see it coming,” he said with some amazement. “It actually took me a little while to realize that I was dead. But I hated being a soldier, and it wasn’t long before I felt relief and an incredible freedom.”

Greta’s feeling of terror after dying, I would soon learn, was very atypical. She said she felt no pain when she left her body, but there was a sense of shock and surprise as she discovered that her consciousness and awareness continued to live on. Curious, she floated up high over the rooftops of the city in which she lived. She was offered a panorama, a completely novel perspective she had never known in that life as she looked down on rows of familiar houses and shops with smoke billowing from their chimneys, drifting up into a deep blue sky.

Then she “remembered” she had a body . . . but where?

Suddenly frightened, she returned down to the scaffolding where she had been hung, but her body was no longer there. This is exactly the moment where we had “entered” her past life in our first regression. No wonder she had been so terrified and confused.

Following some kind of internal homing beacon, she found herself in a cold concrete warehouse where the bodies of dead Jews had been stacked. It was uncomfortable, but less painful to experience on this, the “return visit.” She became frustrated, because she could not see the faces on the bodies.

She eventually identified her body by her shoes.

“I spend some time looking at my feet and my body and all the bodies,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how long it is. Maybe a few minutes, maybe several hours, but then I become aware of a light—a beautiful, brilliant golden light that seems to enter the left-hand corner of the warehouse. As I look up at the light, my heart feels drawn to it, and I have a sense that everything is going to be okay. I realize that somehow, I am going to be okay, too.”

She released a heavy sigh. As she floated deeper and deeper into the light, her facial muscles relaxed. Then suddenly, she brightened.

“It’s Klaus!” she said excitedly, “not the Klaus from back then, but the Klaus from this lifetime. Oooh, it is so wonderful to see you.” Her face wet with tears, the words came rushing out in a tumble. “He is hugging me, and he says he loves me, and he says he was a monster last life, but he came back to prove that he didn’t have to be one in this life, so Klaus wasn’t a monster.”

“He wasn’t a monster this lifetime?” I asked, echoing her words.

“Oh no, oh no, no, no, no, he was a good man,” she said emphatically. “Well,” she said, giving it a second thought, “he was a hard man. He was a stubborn man.” Then her face broke into a smile again, “But he was a good man, and he loved me, and he provided for me. He is saying that he will be waiting for me. On the other side, you know,” she said clarifying. “Klaus died just last year from prostate cancer.”

“I am so sorry,” I said softly. “How wonderful to know that his spirit lives on and that he loves you still.”

But suddenly Greta’s joyous reunion was transformed as she faced yet another goodbye.

“But Klaus,” she said to him, beginning to blubber, “Klaus, how will I go on without you. What will I do? What is my purpose?”

Tears were streaming down her face. I knew this was a pivotal moment, but one completely out of my control. The ball was in Klaus’ court. I could only hope he had a ready answer. I never would’ve guessed what came next.

Greta broke out into a fit of laughter.

She continue to guffaw and giggle for several minutes. For a moment it seemed like she might never stop laughing, and I found myself chuckling right along with her, though I had no idea what was so funny.

“Oh, that Klaus! He was such a kidder, what a kidder he was,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. “Prince Albert and Schotzie,” she said aloud, as though that would make perfect sense to me.

“I’m sorry . . . Prince Albert and Schotzie? I asked.

“Yah, Prince Albert and Schotzie,” she said, this time emphatically.

My face screwed up in confusion, even though she couldn’t see me.

“They are our two dachshunds! He says, ‘Who would take care of Prince Albert and Schotzie if something happened to my Greta?’ Oh, he is laughing too. He is such a kidder, but I understand what he means. I still have to look after the dogs. There are, of course, my children and grandchildren. Although they live far away, I still have lessons at the earth school, he says.” She giggled. Then her demeanor changed, her face becoming utterly serious. “Again, he says he will wait for me.” She paused, and I sensed a moment passing between them, a communication beyond words. It was quiet. And then, her voice a whisper, she offered her beloved Klaus a tender farewell.

“I will see you soon, my love.”

A tiny, final tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

Apropos of nothing, I suddenly felt two thumps on my back, like I was being hit by a rubber mallet the size of a small skillet. I was temporarily distracted, but refocused, resolute that I would count Greta out of hypnosis, this time actually getting the numbers in the right sequence. After a few minutes, she got her bearings, opened her eyes, and smiled at me.

“I feel better,” she said. “It’s done now. You know, most Americans don’t realize how much shame and regret the German people still carry for the Nazi atrocities, even now. When Klaus and I were married in our current life, I could see that we carried that regret but for different reasons. Now, I know that I had a deep empathy for the German Jews, because I was one in my last lifetime, and Klaus felt some regret, because he had been a Nazi officer, although I can assure you in this lifetime, he was a kind, loving, and just man.” She paused, putting it all together. “He made different choices this life,” she added with a smile of admiration.

Greta and I spent a few more minutes talking about the experience, and finally I had a sense that it was time to wrap up, but I had to ask a last question. “If Klaus liked someone—say, a male friend—how would he express that?” I asked.

Greta giggled. “Oh, Klaus never was—how do you say it in America?” She paused a moment with the quizzical look of a fifteen-year-old girl. “He wasn’t touchy-feely!” She laughed out loud. “He was not a hugger. But if he thought someone did a good job, he would clap them on the back. Usually a bit too hard, I think.”

I grinned at Greta, and suddenly felt a warmth rush to my chest. I think maybe Klaus gave me a couple of thumps of approval that day just to let me know that I did a pretty good job—for a rookie, anyway. Greta and I smiled at each other with knowing glints in our eyes. I wondered what kind of karmic connection Greta and I had that we might bring such a deep and profound experience to each other. Perhaps one day, as I float above Gregg’s body, those answers will be revealed.