Three Past Lives
ID 89250424 © Aleksandr Kichigin | Dreamstime.com
The hands that hold mine have a ring on each finger, two on each thumb. The medium’s earrings whisper, miniature wind-chimes, as she rolls her head, eyes closed.
The sign in her small booth at the Psychic Fair reads, “3 Past Lives for $10.” Hanging on three sides of the booth instead of walls are intricately embroidered tapestries, Afghani, like the bodice of her dress, and on the tall little table at which she sits are Tarot cards, runes and crystals. I am perched in front of her on a stool, smiling and curious, my mind open, receptive and still tingling from a session just now with a psychometrist who had held my great-great-grandmother’s wedding ring, twisting it in her fingers and telling me truths about myself.
The medium speaks softly and rapidly: “The most recent life I can see… this century but more likely the last, you run a girl’s school in India, or maybe Nepal… your parents severely disappointed in you and what a waste to teach girls, they say.”
I am still trying to punctuate what she has told me when with barely a pause, she continues. But first, her head stops its circular movement for a moment and then reverses direction, counter-clockwise now.
“A sailing ship at sea… the sails are full and taut… you were a sailor on this ship… a man… now dead… keel-hauled… your punishment and lesson to others who would not obey.”
A man? I was a man in a past life? I open my mouth to clarify, but before I can speak the medium continues after again changing the direction of her rhythmic head movements.
“Centuries ago… this one your first life…. you are a man in a hunter gatherer world but you are a failure ….an outcast… you are a very poor hunter and cannot get a wife, but wait…”
I sit forward on the edge of my seat, my eyes fixed on her red lipstick, the same colour as her beaded shawl.
“As an old man you have developed a skill that brings you the respect of your people… you are a storyteller… and die having many wives and children…. Happy.”
She sits back on her stool, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide open now and watching me with satisfaction, nodding knowingly as I tell her that I am a teacher with a heretofore inexplicable fear of the water, who loves to tell stories.