And that, of course, is not only your right, but also your meaning-making machine in action. Moment by moment, second by second, each and everyone of us are coming up with conclusions about everything we see, hear, feel, and touch. That's just the way it is. We are story makers, connecting the dots of our lives in our own, unique way, and then using the lines we have drawn BETWEEN those dots as a kind of subjective map of the world -- OUR world and THE world -- both of which tend to be the same. Thus Paul Simon's fabulous line, "One man's ceiling is another man's floor."

The story that follows is a story I have told to only five people in the 43 years since it happened. I know that it's a risk to tell this story because I set myself up for ridicule and judgment -- my hesitation to tell it nothing more than my own chicken-shittedness in response to my projection of other people poking at my already thinning persona. So be it. C'est le vie. I guess that's the risk we all take every day upon getting out of bed. Our words and our actions... our silence and our non-action are all subject to the opinion of just about everyone we meet, save for a few Bodhisattvas, children, and people too absorbed in their own thoughts to even notice.

Be that as it may, here goes:

One day, a friend of mine, in the mile-high city of Denver, Colorado, asked me if I wanted him to guide me through a past life regression -- an ability he had recently developed that very few people knew about. While I was wary of the rapidly emerging "New Age" scene at the time, with it's questionable promises of instant access to the great mysteries of life, there was something in the way my friend presented his offer that disarmed me. There was no visible ego to his invitation. Nothing superficial. Nothing phony. To me, it felt totally pure of heart.

"Sure," I replied, "Why not?"

Twenty eight years old at the time, newly divorced, and standing at yet another major crossroads of my life, the time felt right to take a fresh look at things -- even if that look took me back several centuries. And so, we dove in.

Either my friend was a master regressionist, or I was super-suggestive, or BOTH because in just a few minutes I found myself experiencing a deeply felt panoramic re-living of eight past lives of mine -- almost as if I was watching a movie that had been masterfully made, but stored in some dusty back room.

Can I prove it? Was it real what I saw? Imagined? Hallucinated? I have no idea, not unlike the mythical King who, lifetimes ago, dreamed he was a butterfly and awoke in a panic wondering if he was a King dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a King. "Neither," explained his trusted advisor. "You are neither."

For now, suffice it to say, what follows -- the recounting of a past life memory of mine -- is just a STORY. However flawed, filtered, falsely remembered, or conjured, on the deepest level it doesn't matter -- because, in the end, all of our communications (to ourselves and each other) are just that -- stories... the personal way we stitch together the flora and fauna of our lives into a tellable tale -- the curious way we make sense of things.

My hope? That my story below, newly told, will spark an opening for you... an insight... some kind of recognition... a glance into the mirror of your own life so you can more clearly see something that is begging to be seen.

Here goes:

I am a yogi, in India, living deep in the forest, alone. I have been there for a long time, silent, content, free of desire, and without a care in the world. One day, I see a radiant man with a full head of white hair walking towards me. It is Shri Yukteshwar, Yoganananda's Guru, a man of great purpose and power. He continues walking towards me, in silence, and places his hand on top of my head. Suddenly, everything turns to light. White light. There is nothing else happening other than this light. Nothing else exists. Nothing.

When I open my eyes, the radiant man with the white head of hair is gone. In his place is a woman, someone I surmise to be my wife. She is doing things. She is busy. Preparing food. Cleaning things. Many things. Making order, all in silence. Every action is purposeful. There seems to be some kind of sequence to her tasks, like she has something in mind and knows what she’s doing, though I am not exactly sure what it is.

Years pass. We have a child. A son. When he turns 17, he decides to move away. And so he does. Then there are just two of us in the forest -- my wife and I. Then she decides to move away, which she does, leaving me, in the forest, alone again. More time passes. Then I decide to move away. Why not? Why should I be the only one who stays? As I exit the forest, I am bitten, on the ankle, by a poisonous snake. Falling to the ground, I begin sucking the poison out of my wound, spitting the poison out of my mouth as fast as I can. I do that for a minute or so. Then I lose consciousness and die.

Is this past life memory of mine real? Is it Imagined -- the fevered attempt of my psyche to make meaning out of various unconnected dots in my life? God only knows. For now, all I am asking you to do is consider my memory of a past life to be just a story. Nothing wrong with that, right?

In this lifetime, the Mitchell Lewis Ditkoff lifetime, there was a period of 2-3 years, in my early 20's, when I used to frequently spit for no apparent reason. My friends would notice and ask me why I spit so much and if I was alright. I don't remember what story I made up to explain this strange behavior of mine. But after my past life regression in the mile high city of Denver, Colorado, my story suddenly changed.

YOU get to decide what to make of this story. YOU get to decide what meaningful memories of yours, if any, this story sparks and IF it makes sense for you to pay attention to them. Choice. Your choice. Always your choice.

Storytelling for the Revolution
MitchDitkoff.com
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