Three weeks after I came back from my most recent trip to New York City, and two nights after I saw my client Thomas for our third session, I received an email from him, followed by a black and white photo of Wall Street with an accompanying Wikipedia link.
Hi,
Look what I found! I had absolutely no idea that such an event had ever happened. I never studied American history, nor was I interested in history enough to read and retain much on my own. I did see or sense what seemed like an explosion but did not believe it during the session. I had a similar experience with a map of Europe when I mentioned accurate details that I would have never known on my own. Very interesting because I still can’t say that I believe 100% in past lives, but I almost don’t really care to have an opinion.
Thank you,
(Note: I briefly mentioned this email on Simon’s podcast interview that you can find here.)
Thomas is a medical doctor and a gay man. His email was referring to our previous session. We had been reviewing some entanglements of his relationship when he spontaneously went to the life of a young woman in New York City.
“New York in the twenties,” this statement came out of nowhere in hypnosis. He continued on, “I was there.”
I was surprised. That day when Thomas came for his appointment, we started talking about relationships. His heart seemed to be longing for a relationship. But he kept telling himself, “I don’t have to search for one.” He did this to such a degree that he was somewhat guarded in talking to me. I felt he was not even allowing himself to have the desire for one, just because he “didn’t need to look for it”. I told Thomas about how I came across the ocean from another country miles and miles away, and my partner Tim moved miles and miles, and then at a particular moment in a particular park, we met, in this lifetime. I was hoping to illustrate to Thomas that just because we don’t have to look for something, doesn’t mean we can’t be open to welcoming it.
Thomas expressed an interest in the story of how Tim and I met, so I filled him in by briefly telling him that we met each other in another life, in New York City, in the 1920s.
So later, to hear him say in his hypnotic trance, “New York in the twenties, I was there,” was a little bit surreal for me.
“Floor… black and white tiles… It’s like a coffee shop.” His soft voice as a young woman continued, “There is a lot of wood, maybe a wooden bar, or a wooden fireplace? I go through one door, then I go through another door, then to the left, and into the place… There is red. I don’t know what. There’s something red. And I see the floor. The floor is old tiles. There is wood. It’s dark. But it’s very bright outside. It’s during the day. There is smoke. People are smoking. I see feet. And I see women’s shoes.”
I like it when information flows like that. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Feeling good,” she said in a satisfied tone.
“Are you there as a customer?”
“Yeah,” she replied, before urgently adding, “I need to go back.”
“Go back to…?”
“New York!” It took me a while to realize that it was Thomas speaking, not the young woman, and he needed to go back to New York. “I left him behind, in that lifetime. Something happened. It was beyond our control. I went on, left the place. Then something happened and he died.”
“Like an accident?”
“Yeah, something happened… the building. I see the roads… I don’t know what happened. I see the building down then he was gone. I left and he died. I don’t know what happened. But I blame myself.”
“Blame yourself for?”
“I wanted to stay and die with him… It was the twenties. And I decided that life. Ended. For me. I lived in grief and sorrow till the day I died, in the ’50s. He was 32 when he died. I was 28.”
“Has this being reincarnated in this time?”
“I think he’s waiting. He’s waiting somewhere, but I don’t want to meet him.”
“Because you feel you can’t handle the pain?” Now I know why Thomas didn’t want to look for someone. What a stubborn soul, as if 30-years grief as that woman in New York was not enough!
“But I’m not ready.” The grief was so strong that I didn’t know how many lifetimes Thomas needed to have before he would be ready to meet that man he tragically lost in New York again. “I just decided I don’t want to meet him.”
I had a sense Thomas needed to go back to New York someday, to resolve that past life’s emotional pain. On one level, he realized the direction that he needed to go— forgiveness—and “to start to see someone and move on with my own life”, as he put it in his intake form. But then he just “decided” he’s not ready to meet him. It’s as if the gentle tenderness of the soul is used against himself.
I marvelled at how the stories could be so intertwined. I had just shared with him Rick and Carol’s lifetimes in New York during the twenties. I wondered if Rick had ever rubbed elbows with the woman who Thomas was those years ago on Wall Street?
When I first read Thomas’s email, I smiled at his last comment, “I almost don’t really care to have an opinion”. I don’t either actually. Even though I facilitate past life regressions on an almost daily basis, I don’t have much of an opinion about them. So, I responded to Thomas, “Well, opinions are too cheap to be cared for. People change them all the time without paying a dime. But thank you for sharing. I was just sitting on those stairs of The Federal Hall shown in that old Wall Street photo three weeks ago!”
The Wall Street bomb details can be found in the following link.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_Street_bombing
Wall Street bombing
| Wall Street bombing | |
| The aftermath of the explosion (Federal Hall National Memorial is at the right) |
|
| Location | Manhattan, New York City |
| Coordinates | 40.7070°N 74.0103°WCoordinates:40.7070°N 74.0103°W |
| Date | September 16, 1920 12:02 pm (local time) |
| Target | Wall Street |
| Attack type | Horse-drawn wagon bomb Animal-borne bomb attack |
| Deaths | 38 |
| Non-fatal injuries | 143 serious, several hundred total |
| Suspected perpetrators | Galleanist anarchists |
| Motive | Possible revenge for the arrests of Sacco and Vanzettiand/or the deportation of Luigi Galleani |
