Glimpses Of The Past?

We did past life regression once in a group we belonged to. I don't think our leader really knew what she was doing- and to be honest I don't think she even really expected it to work.

And for most of the group it didn't.

But I saw this much.

A room with a black and white tiled floor- as in 17th century Dutch paintings, sparsely but expensively furnished. I sensed rather than saw that I was a middle-aged to elderly man- well-to-do- a doctor or scholar or lawyer or something along those lines- dressed in clothes I'd date to around 1600. I looked out the window and there- about half a mile away, across the valley on its bluff- was Durham Cathedral.

I've never had much to do with the North East. I've visited Durham a couple of times, Newcastle once. But there's something about the region that speaks to me. Last time I was there I found myself writing a sequence of poems- dramatic monologues- in the voices of local people- a monk at Mount Grace Priory, a Roman soldier, a Prince Bishop, the daughter of a medieval man who was scavenging stone from Hadrian's Wall, a Viking settler, a witch, a Victorian mason working on Durham cathedral. I'm not claiming all these folk as past lives- but there was something going on- something unusual. It was like a tap had been turned on- then off again. They came quickly, one after another and then they stopped. I'd never channelled voices like that before- nor have I done it since.

Well, Whatever It Was It Was Vivid

Thing is it's too bloody easy....

I flip through one of the books. Learning hypnosis takes a minute she says.

Oh well, no time like the present.

Imagine you're in a lift.

It's spacious and comfortable. What colour is the interior.

Pink. Now get on with it

Going down.

One floor, two floors...

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's enough.

Step out. The floor is flagged. It's a cellar. Sort of medieval. there are lots of doors. Choose one.

A cold, wintry blast is coming through the one I head for. I step through. A light dusting of snow. I'm wearing armoured shoes with sliding metal plates that allow for some flexing. Won't walk far in those I think.

There's a bank in front of me, with bushes at the top. A man on a horse comes over the rise.

The man who is me doesn't seem to be armed. He's not a knight, more like a man-at-arms. I think he may have lost his weapon somewhere down the line. Could be he's a bit disorientated. He wishes he had a poleaxe or something but he doesn't. The man on the horse canters up and takes a swing with the heavy sword he's carrying and my man goes down. I don't know where he's been hit, but it's incapacitating. He lies there on his back, like an overturned beetle, with his breastplate weighing him down.

Does the horseman stop to finish him off? No. Why should he? Plenty more out there for him to kill.

My man isn't dead but he might as well be. Odds are he'll freeze to death.

Where are we? My conscious mind says "Towton".

And was that a glimpse of something that really happened or is my mind- which is well stocked with historical trivia- spinning itself a yarn?

I get up. I wasn't watching the clock but the whole exercise seems to have taken about a minute.

Without thinking I go over to my mother and fill her empty tea cup for her.

Ailz says, "That's odd. I was just about to get up and do that myself."

So not only regression but telepathy....