Twenty minutes and a 175 page book changed my life tonight.  I broke up with Peter Kent yesterday and chose to avoid him until he had some time to cool down and collect his thoughts.  I came home today after morning services hoping that we could talk reasonably and settle the matter of his moving out, but he still has not come home, called or emailed.  I felt compelled to read a book I just bought called “Only Love Is Real” by Brian L. Weiss, M.D. even though it was not next on my list.

 

Weiss spoke of how soul mates recognize each other when they look into each other’s eyes and sometimes even before that.  I thought of  my boyfriend’s words from his profile, “My spirit will know her when we meet”.  I loved him from that day and was sure he was my soul mate.  Meeting him threw me off, because his eyes seemed veiled to me, like he was hiding something.  His words struck chords that my soul had longed to hear again, but his eyes were always distant somehow.  Only recently have I felt that I could see him, or that he was seeing me, when our eyes met, but by then the damage had been done to my trust and it was too late.

 

The book mentioned chronic pain and without my boyfriend in my life I have found myself fearful of reverting to the bone crushing headaches, the agonizing menstrual pain and the paralyzing pain in my lower, middle back.  How would I cope with this pain without my boyfriend’s skills as a Chiropractor and Acupuncturist to relieve it?  Dr. Weiss suggested that chronic pain is often the result of a previous life injury and is sort of a reminder to remember who we were and why we are here now.

 

I looked around the room at the Icart’s on the wall and the flair for the 1920’s and 1930’s that pervades my life in choices of clothing, art, furniture and cars.  I remembered the reoccurring dream of committing suicide by driving my convertible at top speed into the rock face at the top of a mountain road.  I remember the impact, feeling the steering column crush into my abdomen and through me.  I remember the bone crushing impact of my head with the dash and collapsing windshield.  I remember the anger of having been jilted and swearing that no man would ever do that to me again.  I was arrogant, superficial, wealthy and full of anger at having been betrayed.  I couldn’t cope with the feelings and took my own life with a sense of indignant revenge.  The dream ends with me floating above my body, incredulous at my self destruction.  I have had the dream many times and since my amnesia even wondered if it happened in this life and I had survived.

 

That could explain volumes.  It would probably be my most recent death and would explain all of my pain.  The car I loved most in the world was a 1937 Mercedes Gazelle convertible that Don bought for me.  Don was born the year that type of car was new.  I loved that car like I have never loved any possession.  I drove it so carefully and loved the feel of the wind in my hair.  I had a similar one before, but it didn’t “feel” right and I sold it in only a month or two.  After Don’s disappearance, I was selling off the equipment and cars and one of the dealers kept pestering me to sell him my little roadster.  I finally did and rationalized to myself that I would have killed myself in it anyway.  It was a kit car on a Taurus frame, with a VW engine.  I drove it like a little old lady.  What would have possessed me to think such a thing or to part with the car I loved so much?

 

The author went on to tell how he regressed patients through past lives using a hall with doors on either side and he would tell his client that each door represented a life or an important memory.  He would instruct them to wait until a door opened and then go through it and look at their shoes.  From there they would describe themselves and then the relevant scene that was unfolding.

 

I have been told that you can’t meditate with an agenda and that whatever is most important will happen of its