The first image came in fragments: a strip of green far below me, my vision blocked by a rough white cloth pulled over my head.  Voices swirled around me in a noisy, angry blur. I felt I was near my home, but at first, nothing made sense.

Slowly, more memories formed. I lived in a small log home in New England with my father and several brothers. My mother had passed away, leaving me—a weary teenage girl—to shoulder the care of the house and family.  Day and night, I knelt by my bed, a white pilgrim’s cap securely on my head, saying the prayers that were required of me in this community.  Life felt heavy.

One day, working in the yard, I stumbled and fell. A man appeared, tall and strong, dressed in a Revolutionary War officer’s coat, blue with brass buttons glinting in the light. His long hair was pulled back neatly. He helped me to my feet, and somehow, I just knew:  we would marry and move into the home where I had grown up, raising two blond-haired boys together. My father and brothers were gone by then, though I never recalled how or why.

Our house stood not far from a small town. I remembered visiting an elderly woman there, called to her bedside for my knowledge of herbs and healing. The room was dim except for the light streaming through the window where I stood near a pitcher and basin.  Her hands were clasped across her waist, her long braid streamed down her chest, family and friends gathered watching us from the far side of the room.  I had something for her—a vivid green mixture from a wooden box of herbs I kept hidden beneath a floorboard in my room. The name lily of the valley popped into my mind, though I didn’t know why. (Only much later did I learn this plant was once used for heart ailments—something best left to history, not modern remedies.)

Other memories flickered—moments of fear when my husband was away. Opening the door to find an angry man in a hat and suit, perhaps a clergyman or sheriff. Later, I was trapped in wooden stocks, in the nearby town, until my husband freed me and carried me home. I sensed this happened more than once, using my knowledge of herbs carried a risk.

The first vision returned and I understood. My body was suspended above the thick green grass. A hood blocked my eyes so I could hear but not see the crowd that had gathered.  This time, my husband was not there to save me. Then it became clear:  I was being hanged in my own yard, a pilgrim woman likely accused of witchcraft.

I stood on frozen ground beneath a vast night sky, snowflakes swirling through the frigid air. The moon cast a silvery light over the landscape, and I could see boulders scattered around me. I was a tall, burly man, long hair hanging around my face, my body draped in heavy furs. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew I wore leather and fur boots. I held a spear upright in my hand. I sensed that a battle raged nearby, but I could not see or hear it.

Although large boulders around me offered cover, I stood in the open.  I sensed I was in the far north—probably Europe—though the word Northerland came to my mind.  While I did not know the year of this ancient era, I did know that I was not in this place by choice.

I was alone but aware others were nearby; I was standing watch.  Then suddenly, a sharp force struck my chest, knocking me backward. I lay flat, staring up at a sky full of stars.  I knew I had been fatally struck by a spear. 

Rather than having more visual or tactile memories in this regression, I felt overtaken by intense anger and frustration.  A memory within the memory surfaced and I knew how I had become a reluctant warrior:   I had been torn from my home, dragged away from my wife and children, and forced to fight someone else’s battle.  I remembered my last glimpse of the flickering fire in our hut and my deep anguish in leaving my family unprotected.

The memories came as flashes—moments, emotions and fleeting impressions. I was a young woman, nearly 20, cool damp air on my face, my long skirt brushing against my ankles.  I felt sorrow, yet also relief.  My father had died.  My sister and I were on our way to live with a wealthy relative—likely an uncle–who owned a towering stone castle.  I remember the chill of its thick walls, the many unfamiliar faces, and the narrow, gothic window in my chamber where I often sat, gazing over the misty countryside beyond.

Not long after, there was a large, boisterous gathering.  I felt a hint of happiness yet strangely detached from it all.  Then I understood—it was my  wedding feast.  My groom, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man, owned land nearby.  The match had been arranged, uniting power, families and property.  We were given spacious quarters, high in the castle’s tower. I was now a noblewoman.

I had purpose in that life.  My sister and I knew the ways of herbs and healing. We worked side-by-side in a dim stone room, sorting leaves and roots on a long wooden table, preparing remedies for those who would come seeking our skills.  I wore a silvery-gray brocade dress and, as we worked, we whispered about our craft.

One day, I was summoned to the great dining hall.  I found a bishop, dressed in red, waiting for me. I walked past the long wooden table and a huge carved fireplace to greet him.  I have no sense of the role religion played for me then, but I was curious to learn the reason for his visit, not fearful of him.  If he spoke, I never heard his words.  I only saw the gleam of his mitre as his hands suddenly closed around my throat and strangled me.  My final thought, a helpless mix of frustration and disbelief, was:  “you fool….we are helping people….”

I looked down and saw I was wearing boots—small, brown, buttoned along my ankle–walking briskly along a sidewalk made of wooden boards.  The ground below was bare and muddy.  I wore a full skirt made of a shimmery brown fabric, perhaps silk.  As I walked, a wisp of white petticoat peeked out beneath the delicately ruffled hem.  I didn’t know where I was headed, only that I felt safe and content.  Somehow, I just knew my father owned a dry goods store—though part of me wondered what exactly a “dry goods store” was. The word Wyoming came to me.

Another memory unfolded.  I was at a barn dance, happy and excited to be there.  Perhaps I was wearing the ruffled brown skirt—I don’t know because my eyes looked up at the fresh wooden walls and loft of the new barn. Around me, people danced, weaving around sturdy timber posts. A young man with thick, curly dark hair approached me. We danced, and I knew, without knowing how, that his name was Jack and he would become my husband.

My life with Jack came in flashes and moments of insight.  We built our study house on a wide dusty plain.  As I stood in the kitchen, I saw a stone fireplace at the opposite end of the house, walls made of dark wood and windows framed with red-checkered curtains. Through them, I watched Jack drive a buckboard wagon pulled by horses in front of our barns.  We had many children—I don’t know how many but I sense that some did not survive.  Later, I would come to understand that one of my daughters in that life returned as my mother in this one.

This lifetime ended gently.  Although my physical body was relaxed during the regression, my hands curled and my voice grew raspy as my life force slipped away, not in pain but worn from age. Perhaps arthritis had twisted my fingers or a stroke had stunted my voice. I sensed several of my daughters gathered close, their presence warm and loving, as I left that life peacefully.

The first image came in fragments: a strip of green far below me, my vision blocked by a rough white cloth pulled over my head.  Voices swirled around me in a noisy, angry blur. I felt I was near my home, but at first, nothing made sense.

Slowly, more memories formed. I lived in a small log home in New England with my father and several brothers. My mother had passed away, leaving me—a weary teenage girl—to shoulder the care of the house and family.  Day and night, I knelt by my bed, a white pilgrim’s cap securely on my head, saying the prayers that were required of me in this community.  Life felt heavy.

One day, working in the yard, I stumbled and fell. A man appeared, tall and strong, dressed in a Revolutionary War officer’s coat, blue with brass buttons glinting in the light. His long hair was pulled back neatly. He helped me to my feet, and somehow, I just knew:  we would marry and move into the home where I had grown up, raising two blond-haired boys together. My father and brothers were gone by then, though I never recalled how or why.

Our house stood not far from a small town. I remembered visiting an elderly woman there, called to her bedside for my knowledge of herbs and healing. The room was dim except for the light streaming through the window where I stood near a pitcher and basin.  Her hands were clasped across her waist, her long braid streamed down her chest, family and friends gathered watching us from the far side of the room.  I had something for her—a vivid green mixture from a wooden box of herbs I kept hidden beneath a floorboard in my room. The name lily of the valley popped into my mind, though I didn’t know why. (Only much later did I learn this plant was once used for heart ailments—something best left to history, not modern remedies.)

Other memories flickered—moments of fear when my husband was away. Opening the door to find an angry man in a hat and suit, perhaps a clergyman or sheriff. Later, I was trapped in wooden stocks, in the nearby town, until my husband freed me and carried me home. I sensed this happened more than once, using my knowledge of herbs carried a risk.

The first vision returned and I understood. My body was suspended above the thick green grass. A hood blocked my eyes so I could hear but not see the crowd that had gathered.  This time, my husband was not there to save me. Then it became clear:  I was being hanged in my own yard, a pilgrim woman likely accused of witchcraft.

I stood on frozen ground beneath a vast night sky, snowflakes swirling through the frigid air. The moon cast a silvery light over the landscape, and I could see boulders scattered around me. I was a tall, burly man, long hair hanging around my face, my body draped in heavy furs. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew I wore leather and fur boots. I held a spear upright in my hand. I sensed that a battle raged nearby, but I could not see or hear it.

Although large boulders around me offered cover, I stood in the open.  I sensed I was in the far north—probably Europe—though the word Northerland came to my mind.  While I did not know the year of this ancient era, I did know that I was not in this place by choice.

I was alone but aware others were nearby; I was standing watch.  Then suddenly, a sharp force struck my chest, knocking me backward. I lay flat, staring up at a sky full of stars.  I knew I had been fatally struck by a spear. 

Rather than having more visual or tactile memories in this regression, I felt overtaken by intense anger and frustration.  A memory within the memory surfaced and I knew how I had become a reluctant warrior:   I had been torn from my home, dragged away from my wife and children, and forced to fight someone else’s battle.  I remembered my last glimpse of the flickering fire in our hut and my deep anguish in leaving my family unprotected.

The memories came as flashes—moments, emotions and fleeting impressions. I was a young woman, nearly 20, cool damp air on my face, my long skirt brushing against my ankles.  I felt sorrow, yet also relief.  My father had died.  My sister and I were on our way to live with a wealthy relative—likely an uncle–who owned a towering stone castle.  I remember the chill of its thick walls, the many unfamiliar faces, and the narrow, gothic window in my chamber where I often sat, gazing over the misty countryside beyond.

Not long after, there was a large, boisterous gathering.  I felt a hint of happiness yet strangely detached from it all.  Then I understood—it was my  wedding feast.  My groom, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man, owned land nearby.  The match had been arranged, uniting power, families and property.  We were given spacious quarters, high in the castle’s tower. I was now a noblewoman.

I had purpose in that life.  My sister and I knew the ways of herbs and healing. We worked side-by-side in a dim stone room, sorting leaves and roots on a long wooden table, preparing remedies for those who would come seeking our skills.  I wore a silvery-gray brocade dress and, as we worked, we whispered about our craft.

One day, I was summoned to the great dining hall.  I found a bishop, dressed in red, waiting for me. I walked past the long wooden table and a huge carved fireplace to greet him.  I have no sense of the role religion played for me then, but I was curious to learn the reason for his visit, not fearful of him.  If he spoke, I never heard his words.  I only saw the gleam of his mitre as his hands suddenly closed around my throat and strangled me.  My final thought, a helpless mix of frustration and disbelief, was:  “you fool….we are helping people….”

I looked down and saw I was wearing boots—small, brown, buttoned along my ankle–walking briskly along a sidewalk made of wooden boards.  The ground below was bare and muddy.  I wore a full skirt made of a shimmery brown fabric, perhaps silk.  As I walked, a wisp of white petticoat peeked out beneath the delicately ruffled hem.  I didn’t know where I was headed, only that I felt safe and content.  Somehow, I just knew my father owned a dry goods store—though part of me wondered what exactly a “dry goods store” was. The word Wyoming came to me.

Another memory unfolded.  I was at a barn dance, happy and excited to be there.  Perhaps I was wearing the ruffled brown skirt—I don’t know because my eyes looked up at the fresh wooden walls and loft of the new barn. Around me, people danced, weaving around sturdy timber posts. A young man with thick, curly dark hair approached me. We danced, and I knew, without knowing how, that his name was Jack and he would become my husband.

My life with Jack came in flashes and moments of insight.  We built our study house on a wide dusty plain.  As I stood in the kitchen, I saw a stone fireplace at the opposite end of the house, walls made of dark wood and windows framed with red-checkered curtains. Through them, I watched Jack drive a buckboard wagon pulled by horses in front of our barns.  We had many children—I don’t know how many but I sense that some did not survive.  Later, I would come to understand that one of my daughters in that life returned as my mother in this one.

This lifetime ended gently.  Although my physical body was relaxed during the regression, my hands curled and my voice grew raspy as my life force slipped away, not in pain but worn from age. Perhaps arthritis had twisted my fingers or a stroke had stunted my voice. I sensed several of my daughters gathered close, their presence warm and loving, as I left that life peacefully.

The first image came in fragments: a strip of green far below me, my vision blocked by a rough white cloth pulled over my head.  Voices swirled around me in a noisy, angry blur. I felt I was near my home, but at first, nothing made sense.

Slowly, more memories formed. I lived in a small log home in New England with my father and several brothers. My mother had passed away, leaving me—a weary teenage girl—to shoulder the care of the house and family.  Day and night, I knelt by my bed, a white pilgrim’s cap securely on my head, saying the prayers that were required of me in this community.  Life felt heavy.

One day, working in the yard, I stumbled and fell. A man appeared, tall and strong, dressed in a Revolutionary War officer’s coat, blue with brass buttons glinting in the light. His long hair was pulled back neatly. He helped me to my feet, and somehow, I just knew:  we would marry and move into the home where I had grown up, raising two blond-haired boys together. My father and brothers were gone by then, though I never recalled how or why.

Our house stood not far from a small town. I remembered visiting an elderly woman there, called to her bedside for my knowledge of herbs and healing. The room was dim except for the light streaming through the window where I stood near a pitcher and basin.  Her hands were clasped across her waist, her long braid streamed down her chest, family and friends gathered watching us from the far side of the room.  I had something for her—a vivid green mixture from a wooden box of herbs I kept hidden beneath a floorboard in my room. The name lily of the valley popped into my mind, though I didn’t know why. (Only much later did I learn this plant was once used for heart ailments—something best left to history, not modern remedies.)

Other memories flickered—moments of fear when my husband was away. Opening the door to find an angry man in a hat and suit, perhaps a clergyman or sheriff. Later, I was trapped in wooden stocks, in the nearby town, until my husband freed me and carried me home. I sensed this happened more than once, using my knowledge of herbs carried a risk.

The first vision returned and I understood. My body was suspended above the thick green grass. A hood blocked my eyes so I could hear but not see the crowd that had gathered.  This time, my husband was not there to save me. Then it became clear:  I was being hanged in my own yard, a pilgrim woman likely accused of witchcraft.

I stood on frozen ground beneath a vast night sky, snowflakes swirling through the frigid air. The moon cast a silvery light over the landscape, and I could see boulders scattered around me. I was a tall, burly man, long hair hanging around my face, my body draped in heavy furs. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew I wore leather and fur boots. I held a spear upright in my hand. I sensed that a battle raged nearby, but I could not see or hear it.

Although large boulders around me offered cover, I stood in the open.  I sensed I was in the far north—probably Europe—though the word Northerland came to my mind.  While I did not know the year of this ancient era, I did know that I was not in this place by choice.

I was alone but aware others were nearby; I was standing watch.  Then suddenly, a sharp force struck my chest, knocking me backward. I lay flat, staring up at a sky full of stars.  I knew I had been fatally struck by a spear. 

Rather than having more visual or tactile memories in this regression, I felt overtaken by intense anger and frustration.  A memory within the memory surfaced and I knew how I had become a reluctant warrior:   I had been torn from my home, dragged away from my wife and children, and forced to fight someone else’s battle.  I remembered my last glimpse of the flickering fire in our hut and my deep anguish in leaving my family unprotected.

The memories came as flashes—moments, emotions and fleeting impressions. I was a young woman, nearly 20, cool damp air on my face, my long skirt brushing against my ankles.  I felt sorrow, yet also relief.  My father had died.  My sister and I were on our way to live with a wealthy relative—likely an uncle–who owned a towering stone castle.  I remember the chill of its thick walls, the many unfamiliar faces, and the narrow, gothic window in my chamber where I often sat, gazing over the misty countryside beyond.

Not long after, there was a large, boisterous gathering.  I felt a hint of happiness yet strangely detached from it all.  Then I understood—it was my  wedding feast.  My groom, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man, owned land nearby.  The match had been arranged, uniting power, families and property.  We were given spacious quarters, high in the castle’s tower. I was now a noblewoman.

I had purpose in that life.  My sister and I knew the ways of herbs and healing. We worked side-by-side in a dim stone room, sorting leaves and roots on a long wooden table, preparing remedies for those who would come seeking our skills.  I wore a silvery-gray brocade dress and, as we worked, we whispered about our craft.

One day, I was summoned to the great dining hall.  I found a bishop, dressed in red, waiting for me. I walked past the long wooden table and a huge carved fireplace to greet him.  I have no sense of the role religion played for me then, but I was curious to learn the reason for his visit, not fearful of him.  If he spoke, I never heard his words.  I only saw the gleam of his mitre as his hands suddenly closed around my throat and strangled me.  My final thought, a helpless mix of frustration and disbelief, was:  “you fool….we are helping people….”

I looked down and saw I was wearing boots—small, brown, buttoned along my ankle–walking briskly along a sidewalk made of wooden boards.  The ground below was bare and muddy.  I wore a full skirt made of a shimmery brown fabric, perhaps silk.  As I walked, a wisp of white petticoat peeked out beneath the delicately ruffled hem.  I didn’t know where I was headed, only that I felt safe and content.  Somehow, I just knew my father owned a dry goods store—though part of me wondered what exactly a “dry goods store” was. The word Wyoming came to me.

Another memory unfolded.  I was at a barn dance, happy and excited to be there.  Perhaps I was wearing the ruffled brown skirt—I don’t know because my eyes looked up at the fresh wooden walls and loft of the new barn. Around me, people danced, weaving around sturdy timber posts. A young man with thick, curly dark hair approached me. We danced, and I knew, without knowing how, that his name was Jack and he would become my husband.

My life with Jack came in flashes and moments of insight.  We built our study house on a wide dusty plain.  As I stood in the kitchen, I saw a stone fireplace at the opposite end of the house, walls made of dark wood and windows framed with red-checkered curtains. Through them, I watched Jack drive a buckboard wagon pulled by horses in front of our barns.  We had many children—I don’t know how many but I sense that some did not survive.  Later, I would come to understand that one of my daughters in that life returned as my mother in this one.

This lifetime ended gently.  Although my physical body was relaxed during the regression, my hands curled and my voice grew raspy as my life force slipped away, not in pain but worn from age. Perhaps arthritis had twisted my fingers or a stroke had stunted my voice. I sensed several of my daughters gathered close, their presence warm and loving, as I left that life peacefully.