Other Lives

Not often do I think of the images I have received of other lifetimes. After all, this life right here and now is the important one. It's the one that needs my attention.

Once in a while, though, I do give these images some reflection. Now before you start saying, "UGH, not another Cleopatra or Napoleon," I assure you that I remember no lives that were chronicled, much less deified. No, the lives I remember were outwardly simple, though I sensed an interior depth. This profound interiority is the primary reason why I so resonated with these others.

And who were they?

* A shepherd, seemingly in the Middle East. Perhaps Israeli. Dressed in tunic and sandals. Could have been 1,000 or 2,000 years ago.

* A Chinese apothecary, beloved by the local children, who giggled about him and tugged playfully at his long robes. He in turn smiled at them, considering them his children, though he didn't appear to have any of his own. No wife either. A gentleness about him, the compassion of a true healer. People would come to him with their problems because they knew he was discreet and that their secrets were safe with him. He would listen, then prepare a tincture to calm their nerves or lift their spirits or abort a sobbing child's unwanted child.

* A slender, nicely attired woman, circa 1930s. Brunette. Lived alone in a sunny, second-story apartment that was cheerful and tidy. Lots of plants. A comfy sofa upon which she leisurely sipped tea and read books, lots of books. Walked to work. Some kind of an office job, though more responsibility than was generally granted women in those days. Greeted by the shopkeepers and pedestrians she passed. Self-contained. Friendly, polite, but not close to anyone. Seemed quite calm, content with her life. Not at all lonely.

* A Catholic monk during the Middle Ages or perhaps later, but in a monastery that had not kept up with the times. This was by far the most powerful vision. I actually felt what he was feeling in my own body. I felt as if I were inside his body. I was there, kneeling on the cold, stone floor of an empty church, and felt I was descending into the earth, as if I had entered a trance that the monk had achieved through long hours of focused prayer. Through this experience, I received a valuable insight, which I crafted into the following poem:


Stepping Outside the City Walls

Five decades hauling water
to wash Christ's feet
and cook the abbott's supper.
Fifty years chopping wood
from forests beyond the city walls.
Pine and juniper, hazelnut, maple, and oak.
Trees felled by those who move in the world.

By day, the villagers left branches at our gate.
Sweet pumpkin bread,
apples, and candles, too.
Wildflowers and thick, coarse blankets
for men who sleep alone.

When only angels and devils stirred,
I brought the gifts inside.
A street filled with people would make me blush,
but darkened, it had no power over me.

Hours alone beneath the cross.
Bruised knees on a cold chapel floor.
Sarifices for the One who led me underground
to secret places where other lives were lived.


Thirty four years ago,
I awoke inside a girl's body.
Within her dreamy, preschool mind,
I was a thought:
How wonderful to be a monk,
a curator of God's soul!

She built altars of dandelions
and pillows of grass clippings for the Virgin's tender feet.
From the tulips to the weeping willow,
the Queen of Heaven floated on blue light beams,
winged garter snakes, and broken colored glass.

White leather prayer books and visions in the woods
kept the little girl content.
But as she grew, she soon discovered that monks were always men
and nuns were made for serving priests.

The convent doors closed,
she chose sickness instead, the secular path of withdrawal.
Insulin syringes and admonitions of "no candy"
formed walls against a world unannounced and uninvited,
a bothersome neighbor forever knocking at her door.


The little girl now seldom thinks of Mary's feet.
She's more concerned with wrinkles beneath her eyes
and her son's face in which she already sees a man.
At nights she prays to anything that may be listening:
"Spirit, God, Angel, Guide,
heal my body so that I might better reveal
my excellence to the world."

I'm yet a thought within her mind,
but growing smaller now.
Soon I'll be a relic of a thought
from some other life sleeping deeper and deeper underground.