Past Lives: How They Affect the Present

I’ve written quite often of my belief in the paranormal and the origins of my belief. One thing I’ve never written about to my knowledge is my belief in past lives and not only how I came to believe, but also why and when. Then there is the effect of my beliefs on my present life.

Lives Past?

The belief in past lives is not new nor is it something that deviates from the Christian faith as some might believe. Some 300 plus years after the death of Jesus who established the Christian church the faith was still young and fighting to survive. To be Christian and follow Jesus’ teachings was to risk being both figuratively and literally being fed to the lions. Even those among the faith quarreled and seemed not able to settle on a set of beliefs. Infighting is nothing new when it comes to religion and to this day it still exists.

In 325 A.D. the then emperor of Rome Constantine offered to officially support the Christian faith, but under one condition that they settle their opposing views and create a basic doctrine for all to follow. Thus the Council of Nicaea formed and what we now know as the Roman Catholic Church was born. In this process a number of beliefs were altered or eliminated, one of which was reincarnation. Even with this step forward there were those who refused to end their belief in reincarnation and it was close to another 1000 years before the belief was wiped out by the destruction of the Cathars and the Spanish Inquisition in the 13th century.

As I child I knew none of this, but I began noting things in my life that seemed to have no explanation. My first memory of questioning such things was around the time I turned 12. The biggest of these things was my fear of water to the point of what some might consider ridiculous. I was unable to venture into water above my knees without panic setting in and the idea of bobbing for apples (a common place Halloween tradition) made me fear for my life. Yet, despite this irrational fear I was drawn to the water in a way I find difficult to explain. It seemed to call to me, fill me with joy, and in the same breath terrify me. It made such little sense even to a 12-year-old that I asked my mother if perhaps I’d almost drowned when I was a toddler. My mother was horrified by the question.

In the same year, I attended a class trip to St. Louis where I now live and saw the Mississippi for the first time. The pull of this magnificent river seemed magnetic and familiar. During that trip I saw neighborhoods dating back prior to the Civil War and certain architecture (that with a French flair) made me long for something I could not quite put my finger on. Some might believe it was simply the imagination of a girl on her first excursion to a place so far removed from her tiny town it overwhelmed the senses. All I know is that when I returned from the trip I told my mother I needed to live there. As usual my insistence was met with a derisive snort and a pat on the head.

As the next few years passed I discovered New Orléans through photos. The first time I saw a photo of The Big Easy it felt as if I’d returned home after a long, tedious trip. Anything I could get my hands on I read. Later when I moved to St. Louis I discovered the writings of Anne Rice, first the Vampire Chronicles and later the Mayfair Witches series. When I read these stories it wasn’t the supernatural aspects that drew me  per se, but rather the lush descriptions of New Orléans both in the historical and present context. I felt as if I needed to go, the draw so powerful it was like an ache in my soul. I shared these feelings with my best friend and we talked of taking a road trip when we were both single, but as it does life continued and the trip was never made. My obsession though has never faded.

During this period of my life the oddest thing happened. My friend and I attended a psychic fair and we decided to have our cards read. The reader we chose was as normal as we could find in a sea of gypsy-esque readers. As a matter of fact she looked like a soccer mom. She read my friend’s cards and we laughed the entire time and then it was my turn. When the woman set out my cards the look on her face was Oscar worthy. When I asked her what the problem was she explained she was seeing something she’d never seen before. A number of the cards involved water and she could see the water moving. She looked at me and frowned saying she didn’t understand what the reason was, but that I was connected to the water. She asked me if I understood.

That sent the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. No she didn’t ask questions nor fish for information. Until that moment she hadn’t asked shit about either of us. And honestly if she was faking she should have been in Hollywood earning every award an actress could. She seemed genuinely disturbed by the entire thing.

I could continue on, but the number of things over the years that have happened to me involving water is endless. The one that sealed the deal for me though was a weekend trip to Chicago around 13 years ago. My friend had invited me to come along with her then husband and two-year old son for a weekend visit to Chicago. Her husband insisted we stay at a hotel on Lake Shore Drive. When we pulled in front they went in to check-in and I stayed outside watching their sleeping son. I stepped out of the vehicle to have a cigarette and saw Lake Michigan for the first time. Everything seemed to come to a stand still as I stood there, cigarette forgotten, staring out at what seemed like an endless body of water that blended into the horizon. It was the first time I’d seen (in person) a body of water that large and my breath was stolen away. This was early summer and I could see the sail boat skimming across the surface, sails fluttering in the wind and suddenly I felt my eyes welling up. There are no words to describe how I felt that day. When she asked me what I was doing I smiled and said–

It’s so fucking beautiful. If I never see the ocean at least I’ve seen as close as I can get in this life.

The next day we went out on the lake as part of an architectural tour conducted on an old fire boat. As I stood at the railing staring out at the lake, wind in my face, I knew without a doubt why I’d both loved and feared the water for all those years. I believe I was a sailor on a ship in my past life, possibly a ship sailing out of New Orléans, and that I died on the water just as I had lived. I have no proof of this, only what I know in my heart and soul. Since that moment I’ve written stories set in the Deep South, one in particular set on an island off the coast of Louisiana Le Jardin de la Lumiere was awarded the CTRR Award by Coffee Time Romance back in October of 2008. Unfortunately, it is no longer available, but I hope to have it re-released at some point in the near future.

This story along with so many others hold a bit of that magic I felt as I stood on the deck of that boat. My love of the South, New Orléans, and the love and fear of the water influence my writing at every turn. My belief of an earlier life paints the images I write in vivid colors and I still have yet to see either the ocean or my beloved New Orléans in this life. Perhaps I will return at some point, but whether in this life or the next I do not know.

What I do know is that the soul is eternal and genderless, it exists without a doubt, and I believe there is more to this world than just the present. Perhaps, some day we will know without a doubt we’ve been here before and we will be here again.

Until Later…Blessed Be

Before Preaching, Know the Real Story

This morning I came across a link on Facebook to a blog post a young woman wrote about the need for welfare/state/federal assistance reform. I agree we need reform, but what I didn’t agree with–the idea everyone on assistance is a lazy bum defrauding the government who needs to find a job. This girl was trying to say the right thing, but before you go preaching about what you’ve witnessed as a cashier at Wal-Mart you need to get to know the real story.

I’m not telling this to gain sympathy, but for those out there who don’t get it to maybe open their eyes to the possibility that we’re not a bunch of lazy bums. This my readers is my real story:

Growing up in a poor family I was embarrassed beyond words because of the stigma associated with welfare/state/federal assistance. My father was on disability and had been since he was forty due to a mental illness. This was well over 30 years ago when mental health medicine was not what it is today. Hell, he didn’t get a definitive diagnosis until 6 months before his death in 1992 (he was suffering from schizophrenia). My mother was his primary caregiver during their marriage and there were 3 children of which I was the oldest. For many years I was oblivious to the fact as a young child exactly how poor we were. As I grew older and realized not everyone lived as we did I became horrified.

At fourteen I got my first job through a government program. It was full-time (40 hours a week at $3.25 per hour, min. wage at the time) during the three months school was out of session. I busted my ass doing such things as stripping and sealing both tile and hardwood floors, painting, raking shale in the driveways and parking lots of the local school preparing for the coming school year. The money I earned was mainly put toward school clothes and supplies for the coming school year with a rare buy my mother considered frivolous (my first summer at this job I purchased a 19 inch black and white television for my cracker box of a bedroom). I did this job for three summers leading into high school.

There was no money for a college education and my only option was to either marry straight out of high school, join the military or move away trying to find work. Thankfully I had an aunt who realized how desperate I was to get out of the one-horse town I was in and distance myself from the stigma of my upbringing. I swore the day I left my parents house I would never–NEVER–rely on government assistance until I was old and gray.

In 1986 I moved to St. Louis and in with my aunt who was like a second mother to me. I had some major league adjustments to make before I could learn the way of being an adult. In late 1988 I moved out of my aunt’s house and in with the guy I was seeing and never looked back. In 2003 I was laid-off from a decent paying job ($10.00 an hr.) after which I suffered an accident that required surgery on my left leg. With no job, no insurance, and depression settling in I struggled to keep the promise I made myself all those years ago. Unemployed for a little over a year (part of which I could not draw unemployment due to being out of commission from the accident) my retirement savings depleted to feed myself and keep a roof over my head. Just when I was ready to give in and lose my apartment fate blessed me with a part-time job.

The weight was just beginning to lift, but after a year the business I worked for went under and I was without work again. This time though the fates were looking over me and the owners of the building I lived in hired me as a manager a month into my unemployment. It was never meant as a long-term thing, yet the state of the economy left me with little opportunity. Despite two letters of recommendation from my previous two employers and a solid employment record I could not find a job. Employers would rather hire some young kid straight out of college with no practical work experience than someone such as myself. Hell, I couldn’t get hired at a damn restaurant despite 13 years of experience doing just that.

After two years of struggling to survive on around 300.00 a month (my rent and utilities taken care of) my best friend threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t apply for Food Stamps. I did exactly that and it wasn’t easy. When I made the trip to the local office I felt like I was a failure and my stomach turned inside out. Two hours of waiting, tons of paper work, and a kind smile of approval later I burst into tears. I remember what the social worker said and did. She squeezed my hand and told me to hang in there that things would get better, I just needed to stay strong.

That was in late 2007. At the age of 39 I had done what I swore I would never do–accept assistance.

Last winter I found a second part-time job through a friend doing industrial cleaning 3 nights a week. I was clearing just under $400.00 a month from my day job as property manager and a $130.00 in Food Stamps. The moment I reported this new job (an extra $200.00 a month) my assistance dropped to $70.00 a month. I’ve managed to make it work, getting occasional support from friends and praying a great deal. Life is not what I imagined at 18 or for that matter 28. During all this I also lost my mother, my aunt, and an uncle. But as a wise woman once told me the powers that be do not give you more than you can handle.

Apparently, they have more faith in me than I have in myself. I will be losing my second job in a few weeks, the owner having decided to sell and the new owner choosing to do the accounts on their own and not keep the employees. The weight is gaining again and yes I will be getting an increase in my assistance come the end of March. So tell me again that all those on assistance are simply too damn lazy to get a job.

As the title of this blog says–Before preaching, know the real story.

Until Later…Blessed Be

Creation of a Manuscript 04: Sex & the Supernatural

Long ago in a land far away I once had a writing partner. We wrote some wonderful, sexy, m/m fan fiction together, but there was one thing my writing partner refused to write–a human man having sex with a male ghost. I didn’t get it then and I still don’t understand. I believe if I recall it had something to do with ghosts not having physical bodies. No physical body available, how can they fuck? My brain doesn’t work like that, but no matter the argument I could never change her mind.

I’ve had this obsessive need to write a sex scene between a spirit and a human for ages. To be honest I believe it started with a book when I was a teenager. My mother bought the book but was so horrified by something in it she tossed it in the fire and burnt it to ash. It wasn’t until I was eighteen and managed to get my hands on said book only to be surprised by the reason behind my mother’s horror. It was a classic haunted house tale, but with a twist–the ghost wanted the female lead and took her by force. Yep, it was a rape scene where a ghost raped a woman. That in my opinion was scary and it accomplished what the writer set out to do, terrify the reader with the idea of a rapist you couldn’t see. It definitely worked.

Ghost Sex?

In creating my manuscript I’ve written myself to a point I never imagined. The scene which I’m creating at the moment can go one of three ways and I’m unsure which way my muses will drag me. The scene involves a spirit, both of my main characters, and sex. Whichever way my muses go neither will be pretty, but I’m driving myself nuts trying to decide. Here are the three options:

1. Spirit and main male character have sex while spirit takes on the form of the secondary male character.

2. Spirit possesses secondary male character and has sex with main male character.

3. Obsession occurs between spirit and secondary male character, influencing him to have sex with main character.

Like I said, not pretty because either decision I make leads to a rape scenario adding more tension between the main and secondary male characters. There is no way around avoiding this, I’m not making light of the idea of rape, and it happens for a reason not just because. The scene plays a big part in what happened in the house 50 years earlier and leads to…well I don’t want to spoil my story line for any potential readers. It’s important and I’ll leave it at that.

What I need to hear from folks out there is how they feel about the idea of a spirit having sexually contact with a human. It’s not as if this is even unheard of in paranormal case studies or even as if it’s a new idea within the context of fiction. It is something that might offend or horrify certain people and I would like to hear some opinions.

Looking forward to hearing from any readers or fellow writers out there on this subject.

Until Later…Blessed Be