MEMORIES OF THE WORLD I had lived in before my birth were on the Soul level, not in my conscious mind. Those memories returned later in life. From that first Soul awakening, what remained was a sense of me being a stranger in a strange land. This world felt foreign to me—and I had no idea why. My spiritual senses had been opened by that peculiar experience. I became aware of a life force in myself and others. I saw a glow of blue energy around people that would sometimes flow between us. I'd often hear thoughts from adults when they focused their attention on me. This was usually confusing as they rarely said what they were thinking. Adults seemed to hide their true thoughts with words. Earth felt uncomfortably dreamlike, and I secretly hoped that someday I would wake up and it would all disappear.
My life memories began with that Soul-waking experience. I have many memories of that crib, of being laid to rest at night, my mother tucking my covers tight around me, and then leaning over to smile and wish me goodnight. My Dad often appeared beside her to wish me sweet dreams. When I awoke in the morning, I stood up in my crib, held onto the side rails, and cried for my mother to come to get me. After a few months, I figured out how to climb over the crib rails and down to the floor. I appeared early one morning in the living room. I didn't understand what my mother said, but it was in a loud voice, and she was surprised. My Dad was laughing. I felt proud of myself for having figured out how to escape that small world. I didn't like being confined. I wanted to be free to explore. A few days later, I had a new bed low to the ground without side rails.
When I was three, in the afternoon, I'd climb onto our kitchen countertop, then sit next to the window, hoping to catch sight of neighborhood children returning from the school I could see on a far hillside. I asked my mother almost daily when I could start school. She always answered, "Maybe next year." My mind blurred at the idea of waiting a year. As I stared out the window, I wondered if I'd ever go to school. At three years of age, life was progressing at a snail's pace, and I wanted to speed things up. I found almost everything frustrating. For instance, I couldn't reach the light switch in the upstairs bathroom. I had to ask my mother to turn on the light each time I wanted to use the training toilet in the evening. Finally, she came home from shopping to place a small wooden stool one day beneath the bathroom light switch. It's difficult to explain what a sense of independence this gave me. I was thrilled to be able to step up on the stool and turn the light on by myself.
One day, when I closed both eyes and pressed my fingers on my eyelids, I noticed a third eye appeared in the middle of my forehead. Excited, I experimented with pressing my eyelids and releasing them, making the third eye appear and disappear. I remember then wondering if I could see through this new mystical eye. I squinted hard, trying to look through it. My third eye didn't work. Then, a clever idea came to mind.
Excited, I ran into the bathroom to move the little stool below the light switch to in front of the bathroom sink. I used the stool to climb onto the sink, then sat on the outer edge with my bare feet in the basin. I leaned forward and stared at myself in the mirror. I pressed my fingers against both closed eyelids, then looked upward to see my third eye appear. It floated in black space, outlined in blue and purple light. I peeked between my fingers to look in the mirror. I was hoping to see an eye open in the middle of my forehead. I tried unsuccessfully to coax my third eye to magically appear for half an hour.
While playing this way, I remember these thoughts came to me. Perhaps in ancient times, we could see through this third eye. Maybe, we lost our ability because we stopped using it. These were thrilling thoughts for me. It felt like I'd tapped into an ancient mystery. But, of course, I didn't have the words to explain this to my parents. This was the first of many experiences that I was unable to share. A wall seemed to separate the inner worlds from this outside world. These were such strange thoughts for a little person to have. My guess is that my early preoccupation with my third eye came from my lives in Tibet and India, which were slipping into my young awareness.
Most of my early spiritual experiences came at night. My parents preferred putting me to bed early, which I hated. At 7pm, I was never tired, especially during summer before sunset. It seemed crazy to me, but I didn't have words to express my feelings. Frustrated, I could only cry and rebel. Regardless of my objections, I had to go to bed.
When my mother put me to bed, she'd sit on my bed and recite the Guardian Angel Prayer. She'd speak one phrase at a time and then wait for me to repeat it after her.
Angel of God, my guardian dear,
To whom God's love commits me here,
Ever this day, be at my side,
To light and guard, to rule and guide.
I'd seen pictures of angels in our Bible and on the windows in our church every Sunday. I often sensed someone was watching over me, but they didn't have wings.
After my mother left my bedroom, I'd often lie awake for hours, staring at the white ceiling and the wood patterns on my bedroom's tongue-in-groove-stained pine walls. I'd invent games to play while lying in bed. I'd practice getting a fuzzy feeling by intuitively shifting my consciousness. I'd let my body grow brighter inside by opening up and letting the Light flow into me. The sense of being in my body faded, and I'd float up to become a glittering, glowing body. I learned to focus on the feeling of moving up, to rise up out of my body. I could float up to my bedroom ceiling and then back into my body. I practiced this for weeks.
Then one night, I discovered I could float through the ceiling and attic to hover above our blue shingled roof. I remember seeing the strange shimmering glow of plants and the grass fields beside our home. I watched but didn't hear the wind blowing through the giant cottonwood trees. Looking up, I marveled at the millions of stars that were much brighter than usual. The world had a luminous quality. It shimmered and was more beautiful. The thought of venturing beyond my roof scared me. I just hovered there looking at the world and the stars, wondering and trying to understand. There was a gentle presence with me. It felt like a grown-up friend. It was just there, quiet, watching with me. I could barely perceive it and never saw it, but its presence brought me comfort. I knew I'd be okay.
I played another game when I got bored with popping in and out of my body. I would create a small tent by lying on my back, pulling the blanket over my head, and propping the covers over my knees. In that small tent-like space, I'd hold both hands in front of me between my legs, spread my fingers wide, and stare at the blue light around each finger. A bright blue light shimmered close to my skin, creating a halo effect. I loved playing with the light around my hands because I could easily change it with my thoughts. I practiced creating a fuzzy vibrating feeling to make the blue light stronger. I encouraged the light in my heart to grow, then willed it into my hands. My hands grew brighter. When I focused more carefully, I could see subtle shades of blue, purple, and pink light around my fingers.
One night I decided to see how bright I could make the light. I pushed with all my will to make my hands glow as bright as possible. My chest felt like it was going to burst with energy. I lost track of my body and faded into a dreamlike world and sleep. These are my early memories of experiencing life energy flowing through me and the world around me. As I acquired language and became able to converse, my spiritual senses morphed into the shared reality with those around me.
I spent most of my third year without playmates. My parents had full-time jobs, so a babysitter looked after me during the day. So when I was finally able to be with children my own age, it was both shocking and confusing.
Nothing made sense to me on my first day of Kindergarten. My mother had pulled some strings and convinced the principal to bend the admittance rules, getting permission for me to start school a full year earlier than allowed. Finally, my yearlong effort of questioning my mom daily, "When can I start school?" was about to pay off. At four years of age, I remember clearly the feelings of excitement and uncertainty as I trotted alongside my mother, who held my hand tightly, walking way too fast from my short legs to keep up. Luckily, our destination, a red brick, two-story school on a wooded hillside, was two short blocks from my home. I was happy; my lifelong dream was coming true. I had finally gained admittance into the big world—my first day of school!
Our large classroom held fifty children. Michael was a popular name with baby boomers; I became one of thirteen Michaels. I became "Michael K." Fifty mini-chairs behind connecting folding tables sat along three sides of our classroom, creating a U-shape that opened to the chalkboard and our teacher's desk. I chose a seat near the window to see trees, the sky, and a distant view of my home. Our teacher, Mrs. Hamilton, had placed art paper in front of each of us with a supply of crayons. After introductions, where she introduced herself, wrote her name on the chalkboard, then asked each of us to stand and say our name, she explained, "I want you to draw your family and your home with crayons on the paper in front of you. You have twenty minutes."
I was shocked. It seemed an impossible task. School was much harder than I thought it was going to be. I sat still staring at the blank paper for twenty minutes, trying to remember my father's face. I couldn't visualize him clearly enough to begin the drawing. I needed a photo. I thought about the house we lived in, the complicated rooflines, the many windows, the trees, the front entry stairway, driveway, sidewalks, and patio. This assignment was way too hard for me! I wanted to go home.
With ten minutes left in the period, I sat on the miniature chair sulking, staring at a blank sheet of paper, frozen in depression, when Mrs. Hamilton wondered by and noticed me. She bent over to place a hand on my shoulder and suggested, "Why don't you walk around and see what the other children are drawing."
I stood and walked around the room, glancing over their shoulders to see student after student drawing square boxes for homes with triangles on top for a roof. Some had a squiggly line coming out of a chimney for smoke and choppy green stokes in front for grass. Everyone had drawn their family as different-sized stick figures.
My home didn't look anything like a box with a triangle on top, and I was sure that their home didn't look like that either. The stick figures looked nothing like human beings. I was so relieved. The teacher didn't want me to draw my home and family. She wanted us to draw simple symbols that represented them. I went back to my desk with the four minutes left to complete the assignment. I quickly drew a square, a triangle roof, and a squirrely line for smoke coming out of the chimney for smoke. I distinctly remember that the squirrely line bothered me because it was untruthful. We didn't have a fireplace in our house, but I wanted to fit in. I drew the stick figures for my parents, myself, and baby sister. Then with seconds to spare, I took a green crayon and did a few quick swooshes across the bottom of the page for our front lawn.
We were demised for outside playtime. When we came back into the classroom, each of our drawings was taped to the wall. Mrs. Hamilton encouraged us to walk around and look at the art our classmates had done. As I stared at my own drawing and compared with it other art, I grew determined to accept the challenge of drawing my family and home. I thought that I could do much better.
After school, my mother met me to walk me home, holding my hand, walking way too fast. When I got home, I asked for a drawing pad and pencil, then went out onto our front lawn to stare at our home, determined to draw it. I started the drawing, but when I couldn't see a window behind a tree, I'd move several steps sideways to see the window more clearly, but the whole view changed. When I stepped back several steps to see the roof more clearly, the same thing happened, the view changed. After thirty minutes, I gave up. I looked at my drawing and saw everything was wrong. Drawing was too hard. Depressed and defeated, I went inside.
My mother asked me what I was drawing, and I showed her. I told her I couldn't figure it out. Drawing the house was too hard. She sat me down at our living room table, drew a horizon line on a blank piece of paper, a rectangle, and explained perspective, vanishing point, and artist's point of view. She'd drawn a perfect-looking 3-D box with a triangle on top whose horizontal lines had vanishing points governed by a distant point on the horizon. I grasped the concept immediately and began practicing drawing boxes and shapes with a horizon line and vanishing points. The next day after school, I went outside to draw my home, but after an hour, I grew bored. My house was boring; I wanted to try something more challenging.
I went inside and saw a black and white 5" X 7" framed photo of my Dad on a living room end table. I sat on a living room chair and began drawing my father. But there were no sharp lines like the house, only shades of grays and whites. I experimented by smudging the pencil with my figure to create shading. I remember I worked on the drawing for five hours straight. It was addicting. I had to stop for dinner but continued working on it the following day. The picture was teaching me how to draw. All I had to do was stare at it, learn to see it differently, and then translate that to paper. My mother showed the drawing to my Dad when he got home from work, and they both praised me. I was a little embarrassed; it did not look right. His mouth drooped a little, and the left eye was slightly off. My mom placed it in the bottom of her bedroom dresser drawer for safekeeping, where it stayed for fifty years.
Near the end of the school year, I was sitting at my desk listening to Mrs. Hamilton when I began to feel my body expanding like a balloon. Surprised, my mind became completely stilled as I experienced my body expand into a large ball of energy, then I gently floated up out of my body about two feet above my desk. A pleasant, deep peace flowed into me—and time stood still. I was having fun feeling this way. Then, I saw a ten-foot-tall man in white robes standing in our school room doorway. His shoulders were even with the top of the door, and he looked directly at me. He had shoulder-length blond hair, a square jaw, and tan skin with a shaved face. There was a strength that emanated from him; he looked powerful. I intuitively understood I was the only one who could see him. As I looked at him, he watched me with an affectionate expression; I felt his love inside my heart. In that elevated state, I intuitively understood many things. He was a teacher here to introduce himself. I would be taking lessons from him. He was here to help me in this life.
He moved towards me, bent at his waist until his mouth was beside my left ear. I felt a puff of his breath in my ear as he whispered, "You will remember this moment for the rest of your life." Then he was gone. Like air being let out of a balloon, my aura slowly shrank to its normal size as I floated gently down to merge with my body—and time resumed. I sat there thinking, I loved what just happened! Who was that person? He whispered in my ear, "I'll remember this moment for the rest of my life!" What a strange thing to say!
A week later, I started having dreams of attending a delightful school in another world. That handsome male teacher sat on a large white boulder between a pond and a green lawn giving lessons to us children. I never saw his mouth move, but I could hear him inside my head. I don't remember his lessons, but I remember that I could see my face in the pool of water beside him. Curved pathways on top of a grassy knoll behind us led into a forest we could explore. This children's teaching garden was next to a tall white, single-story domed building with pillars and a walkway that encircled the building. I remember staring at the entrance, two tall, ornate, arched doors, and wondering what the building was for. The understanding intuitively came; it was for grown-up lessons.
Those wonderful dreams of attending a heavenly school for children were interrupted by recurring, traumatic nightmares of a violent past life death in the years that followed.