Reincarnation. Transmigration of souls. Ghosts. Apparitions. Out of body experiences. Time travel. Dreams. Visions. Visitations. Deja vu. Whatever your thoughts may be on these concepts, it makes no difference to me. I have experienced them all. My memory goes back for thousands of years through countless lives – male, female, animal and insect. I have never yet experienced what is commonly called death. I eat right, get lots of fresh air, sunshine and exercise. I sleep well and I take my meds faithfully. Roll your eyes if you must – you’re not the first.

In my defense, memory is an unruly thing. Left unattended it is prone to wander off like an unsupervised child — to go traipsing off to parts unknown, looking for adventure and getting into mischief. When or if it returns it seldom looks the way it did when it left. When it does show up again it usually presents itself in one of three distinct forms. It may return all tattered, haggard, breathless, clinging to life, like some prodigal son, barely recognizable from what it was when it left. It may come be-bopping back in some fancy zoot suit, feathered hat, gold chains, fancy tie, all manner of other embellishments, and go swaggering about making a general nuisance of itself. The third and rarest form is when it returns looking exactly the way it did when it left.

I will do my best to avoid swagger or tatter, and spare you my memories and experiences that predate written history – my days of scribbling on cave walls or hunting long-extinct dinners. Through centuries and millennia I have never risen to the level of a known figure of history. No great feats have ever been attributed to me. My name appears nowhere in any record until recent years. I have only ever been a face in the crowd or the proverbial fly-on-the-wall. I suppose this has been my good luck. Had I ever been a politician, high priest, or administrator of a government-run Indian school, my time on this earth would have been brief and singular, after which I would most assuredly have been sent straight to hell.

The year was 49 BC: I was just a 10 year old boy minding my own business fishing from the banks of the nearby river when I heard a clatter of hooves and what proved to be a legion of Roman soldiers led by a great general. I knew nothing of the politics of the time or the coming civil war and ultimate collapse of the Roman Republic. I just knew I was scared and the fish would not be biting that day. I ran as fast as I could, my heart pounding, my mind racing. Reaching home I crashed through the front door. When I finally caught my breath and told my mother what I had seen she gasped and fainted. For the next five years there were constant battles. Many of my friends and relatives were killed. When the fighting finally stopped, “Crossing the Rubicon” became a popular phrase when critical decisions were being made. I never fished in that river again. The general had a salad named in his honor. I often order one when I go out for dinner.

The year was 711 AD: Rome was no more. In fact I knew nothing of Rome, the Rubicon or popular salads. My life as a shepherd’s wife living on the Iberian Peninsula had been mostly tranquil. Lorenzo, my husband, was loving, thoughtful and hard-working. Maria, my daughter, now steady on her feet, when not chasing butterflies under the watchful eye of Ferdinand, our dog, liked to help me tend the chickens and work beside me in our small garden. We talked a lot. Our little hut was sturdy. We ate mutton, chicken, fish, eggs, bread, fruits, and the vegetables we grew in our garden. We were young. We were happy. We were a family. That all changed to endless sorrow when I saw a fleet of white sails crossing the narrow blue water that separated my village from Arab Muslims of North Africa. There were too many of them to be the routine traders that came and went. This was trouble and I knew it. Maria was quickly dispatched to another life. Lorenzo and I were put in chains and carried across the sea to Africa. After that day I never saw Lorenzo or home again. I spent what remained of that miserable life as a sex slave to a Caliph. To compound my misery my Latin complexion – brown eyes and black hair – put me in disfavor of my brutal master. Anguish, sorrow and the lash were not long in dispatching me to another life. “Gentlemen prefer blonds” is not a twentieth century development. Nor do “gentlemen” hold the monopoly.

The year was 1933: I was sitting on a rickety old wooden bench in front of Clyde’s ESSO station lazing away the afternoon, spitting tobacco and sipping a Sarsaparilla when a sporty blue Buick Roaster with a convertible top and rumble seat pulled in for a fill up. The lady that stepped out from behind the wheel was a full six feet tall and looked to be in her early fifties. She and Clyde, the station owner, started up the usual sort of conversation about the “best way to get there from here” and “are all the roads this dusty?” When she finished paying for the gas Clyde cocked his head and asked “Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like the First Lady?” “Oh, I get that a lot,” she replied, and drove away. I just hung my head and chuckled. Didn’t say anything to Clyde. I knew the whole time who she was. Over the centuries I’d learned a thing or two about trusting my gut and knowing people. Eleanor Roosevelt – the First Lady of the United States, was on yet another of her unescorted, independent excursions, to Lord only knows where. That woman – she sure knew how to set her own precedent and blaze a trail for the girls.

Though of lowly existence, through all the millennia of my experiences I have come to see myself as a simple traveler and explorer. I have witnessed and learned a great deal. One thing I learned early in those thousands of years ago that has remained unchanged through those thousands of years – people are the same today as they were when I was scribbling on cave walls. Only technology has advanced. Through the Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, industrial age, information age, technological advances have provided humans with different tools with which to exercise their will and display their temperament. Humans may manifest an endless variety of personalities, but variations of will and temperament have remained limited and unchanged. There have always been the ambitious and industrious. There have always been the indolent. There have always been those driven for power and control of others. There have always been those who wished only to be left alone to live their lives in peace. There have always been those who were ready to take away the possessions of others. There have always been those content to have what they had gained through their own honest labor. There have always been those who cared nothing for others. There have always been those who cared only for others. There have always been the courageous, driven to act. There have always been the fearful and hesitant.

Still rolling your eyes? Still think reincarnation, transmigration of souls, time travel, visitations are silly superstitions?
Stop by Fletcher Memorial Library. Talk to Deb or any of her friendly and knowledgeable volunteers. They will be happy to show you how it is done.
JPG