This
made my day! I received an email from my American client who travelled all the way from Taiwan to Kuala Lumpur for a past life regression session. She sent
me a written experience about her past life regression session. She wrote, “Selina, thank you so much for
a wonderful session. It was amazing for me! You are a very
talented individual and it was so nice to meet you! ….. Attached you'll find my written experience of the session. An amazing
experience indeed. I can't thank you enough”.
Background
Client came in to understand why she couldn't mentally let go of a man she once loved. 3 years ago, she met someone who had a profound effect on her, which had triggered various feelings and emotions in her. She believes that they had a karmic connection. She fell in love with him
but the relationship did not work out. She said that
she was haunted by this person in dreams, and in thoughts throughout her waking
life. This affected her current relationships. She said, “I've tried tirelessly
to free myself from this person but nothing has worked. It's extremely painful.”
She found the answers in her first past life regression session.
Below is her experience in her own words
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Rebecca Lynch's (Not her real name) Past Life Regression
Session (January 10, 2015 )
I always anticipated having trouble being hypnotized, as my
mind often seems to work too quickly to relax. Selina's voice and presence was
soothing; I followed her guidance and easily found myself unable to open my
eyes and sinking deeper into my subconscious. Now, a few days removed from my
PLR experience, I'm still in awe as to how much my mind contains. I'm so
grateful that I've been able to access these memories.
I found myself walking on a thick, white line along an
airport tarmac. The color of the day was a hazy yellow and there was no one
around. In the distance—old fighter planes decaled with black stars encircled.
I was wearing red shoes and a navy blue uniform. Like a camera in motion, my
perspective then switched; I then was facing myself head-on. I was a man—light
brown hair, light brown skin, leather goggles which I presumed were meant to be
used in flight. I'm a pilot. I
thought, in awe.
And how are you
feeling?
A little lost.
Why?
I want to see my son.
The words fell out of me. I was melancholy. I had a son, though
faraway.
My wife won't let me
see him.
She was with him. My son and my wife were faraway and I
couldn't reach them. I continued walking, thinking, scanning the vacant skies.
Imagine you're holding
a photo album, that you're flipping through the images and landing on one.
Then I was in a house; wood was everywhere. There were books
but they were dusty, indicating that they hadn't been read in a long while. I
was sitting on the floor and smiling. My son was in front of me—no older than
three. He was playing with toy blocks. I
love him. I thought, but also knew that he didn't know it. He's too young, too unaware of how she's
affecting him. She. I looked into the next room, the kitchen. There was my
wife, leaning against the counter top. Her hair was a straw-blonde and breaking
off at the ends. She was sad, depressed even. I turned back to my son. I didn't
want him growing up in such a hostile environment. I didn't want him to know
what danger my wife was in.
Go back to the
scrapbook. Land on an image that depicts a happier time.
I saw myself in a basement, at a party, music and laughter
around me. This was America ,
what looked to be the 1960's. Record players; orange sofas. I felt my heart
flutter, skip a beat, speed up slow down. Why
are you nervous? I looked around. In the corner inspecting the lines of a
record was my wife. We hadn't met yet. She's
so interesting. Cautiously, I walked over to her.
The night ended with us sitting on a porch outside, looking
out into a field. A tune came into my mind, "For the Longest Time". I
sang it to her. Our life together began there.
When my son graduated college on a sunny day, we were around
deciduous trees and everything was green. When they called his name Abraham Crawford I felt the purity of
unblemished pride. I couldn't hide my smile. He crossed the stage and made his
way back towards the congregation. His mother—my now ex-wife—was standing a
ways away and looking even more depressed than I'd ever seen her before. She's not happy, and it's not me nor him but
life.
Once more I find myself moving. I'm in another house,
another wooden one. Years have passed. I'm standing on the porch drinking
coffee between trees. My son is there. We're spending time together. My wife
has killed herself with pills. It was
expected. Almost a relief for her, for us. My son and I get into an
argument and he storms off into the house, down the hallway and into a room.
"I'm just like you. You're just like me." He says
before closing the door.
I've travelled to Malaysia
only to return. On the line at immigration with my wife, I see that familiar
flag of red and white, a star and a moon sliver. I'm signing papers; I'm
reassuring the woman I love that her stomach pains aren't much to worry about,
not knowing she's due to have two miscarriages before finally giving birth to
our son.
Past the officials, we stand outside beneath a white sky and
go nowhere. I'll fly you somewhere
someday. I tell her before I leave the scene.
If there are particular people who travel with us throughout
our many lives, they remain anonymous for so long. It isn't until they cause us
sparks of joy or pain that we begin to notice their presence as far from
ordinary; or that they are souls which serve a purpose to us time and time
again.
I noticed my wife's nose first of all. It was familiar. I
knew this nose. It's James' nose (not his real name). And
then the pieces of this story began to turn and collide accordingly.
In my current life, I've spent over two years being consumed
with what occurred between James and I: it was an intense yet short relationship
followed by a series of break-ups which had little explanation. I've been
haunted by his presence in my dreams ever since. I've seen signs of him
everywhere and have been unable to understand why. In this past life which I
visited during my session, I watched the marriage between my wife and I fall
apart in a similar way that my relationship with James did. These two beings
shared the same soul, this I'm sure of.
What I learned from this experience was that the emotional
residue left from my failed marriage in my past life carried over into my
current life. I feel the same scars, the same inadequacy in the face of the
unknown, the same bleating desire to reconnect with this soul with whom I
shared so much.
I've learned more about myself—how I'm a person that needs
both stimulation and release in equal measure to remain balanced; how my heart
is big and kind and strong despite skipping a beat every now and then; and how
I find it hard to see relationships lasting successfully far into the future.
Perhaps this is something that I've never known.
We are psychically connected to these being by cords—one
positive, one negative. In the final moments of my PLR session, I was guided by
Selina to envision my wife connected to myself via these cords. Now cut them. She instructed. And I did,
all but one. I'm having trouble cutting
the last one. I said, near tears, knowing that last cord signified hope.
Creating narrative saves us. It holds us away from the
mismatched pieces of our broken tales and gives us the chance to see how they
work. I have a story now. I have a linear understanding of what happened in my
past life and how it feeds into my life today. For this I am incredibly
grateful. I'm incredibly grateful for people like Selina who have the skill and
heart and patience needed to guide people through all the things they cannot
see.
