Past Lives Trauma Healing

They say, and who they are nobody has ever established, though it is always they who say such things, that the soul does not arrive in this world with empty hands, that it comes dragging a luggage of old wounds and unfinished terrors, and that a life is only the latest chapter of a very long book whose earlier pages we are forbidden to read, though we go on suffering their grammar all the same. Someone dies suddenly, by violence, by betrayal, by a grief too large for the hours allotted to it, and the dying, being interrupted, is never completed, the scream is not finished, and the unfinished thing travels, it stitches itself into the subtle bodies, into the memory the cells are said to keep, and waits, patient as only a debt is patient, for the next flesh in which to present its bill. It announces itself in fears that have no father, in nightmares punctual as landlords, in aches no physician can find on any map of the body, in rage out of all proportion to the spilled coffee that provoked it, in the talent certain people have for ruining exactly what they most desire, which we politely call self-sabotage when we might more honestly call it obedience, obedience to an order given centuries ago by a mouth long since turned to dust, for the wound does not need to be remembered in order to command, it commands best unremembered, the most durable tyrants being the invisible ones, and the body, poor faithful animal, goes on flinching at a danger that ended before its grandmothers were born.

And what is promised to the one who completes the healing, First, that a fear introduced to its own biography is already half unemployed, for terror, like every authority, governs best anonymously, name it, date it, give it an address in another century, and it shrinks to the size of a story, and stories, whatever else may be said of them, can be closed. Then the body sets down its luggage, the shoulder unclenches from a blow it has been expecting for three hundred years, the fatigue of standing sentry over a finished war lifts, and the energy once spent maintaining an obsolete garrison returns, with interest, to the treasury of the living. Then the relationships, that theatre in which the oldest scripts insist on the newest actors, the stranger we are certain we have always known, the same play staged again and again, abandonment, betrayal, control, sacrifice, in different costumes, which we call my type, or bad luck, or love at first sight, though it may be only memory at first sight wearing a mask, heal the imprint, it is said, and you answer the person standing in front of you instead of the ghost standing behind them, free for boundaries, for honest speech, for a love that does not depend on reopening the wound.

And if it is true that we live again, and again, a proposition the narrator, prudent by profession, declines to certify, never having died, or if he has, the management did not inform him, then the only question worthy of a soul is whether it is dragged by the wheel or turns it. The healed, so they testify, begin to turn it, the scattered fragments of themselves come home like emigrants, a wholeness is restored whose absence they had mistaken for their personality, the recurring themes of many lives arrange themselves at last into a legible sentence, and what had looked like random cruelty is revealed as curriculum, pain converted into wisdom, wisdom into compassion, compassion into strength, and strength into a yes spoken to everything that was and therefore had to be, so that one is free, finally, to be what one is, having forgiven what one was, all the ones one was, even those whose names are forgotten, especially those.

Use it until you feel you had enough.

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