Your Spiritual Journey

Escape to Another World

“If you discover your past lives, you discover who you are and you can change yourself, forever altering your future,” said Diane.

I smiled, but remained skeptical. Diane’s newspaper ad had listed her profession as a hypnotherapist specializing in past life regression. But what exactly does a hypnotherapist do? I didn’t have a clue! Would I be placed in some drug-induced trance? What would this session uncover? Would I even remember what I saw, assuming of course that I would see something? Oh well, it’s only $40. If she’s a “nut” or phony I’ll find out soon.

Diane and I sat in a darkened room. She lit a candle, wound up a piano meter—the kind that ticks back and forth at regular intervals—and focused my attention to relaxing my body and accessing my innermost thoughts.

“And now take a deep breath, close your eyes, and begin to count back from one hundred,” said Diane.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…, ”I slowly said out loud.

“Go back to where it all began.”

“I see nothing.”

“Concentrate harder. Hear the piano meter tick back and forth, and ask for God to reveal the secret lives that have long since faded from your conscious memory.”

I counted backwards stopping at twenty. Speaking very softly, Diane asked me to imagine myself in different situations: one minute I walked through fields of flowers, then the next minute I walked through what appeared to be a giant maze. Ever so often beams of brightly colored lights—blue, green, and yellow—cascaded over my entire body. Lost, dazed, and out of touch with reality I walked forward. I felt numb. An endless array of visual imagery paraded through my mind to the point where my senses were so overloaded that I was no longer aware of myself sitting in the chair.

Suddenly I jumped. Something had hit my face and continued to hit me. It was sand, coarse white sand, blown so heavily by the wind that it scrapped my face. I couldn’t see. I put my arm in front of my eyes, moving forward against the wind. My clothes flapped in the wind so violently that I expected them to be ripped to shreds. I stumbled over some uneven stones in my path. My knee bled. My eyes burned. My hair hurt as the wind blew it back, almost ripping it out from its roots. I hunched over putting one arm in front of me, trying desperately to find the way and to find shelter. After several minutes my hand touched what seemed to be a wall. I followed the wall blindly until I found an entrance. At the place where two walls joined I crouched down, putting my face on my knees and covering my head with my arms. Exhausted I fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke. Completely covered in sand, I couldn’t move. It took me several minutes to free myself. I walked out of the building, shielded my eyes from the sunlight, and walked down a cobblestone street. I looked at my feet, clothing, and arms: I wore brown, leather sandals, a white tunic with a leather belt, elaborately-carved gold arm bracelets, one on each arm, and a dagger in a leather sheath. The street looked deserted—not even a dog in sight. Yesterday’s wind had died down to a faint breeze. Yet, as I walked along, I choked on the fine powder-like sand in the air. I continually beat the sand off my tunic and brushed it off my arms and legs. I looked around. Where was I? Many extensively damaged white stone buildings lay everywhere. Sand covered everything: The streets, the house rooftops, the front porches—even the leaves of the trees. From where did all this sand come? Obviously the occupants of the entire town had left. But what had happened? As I walked towards what must have once been the Town Square I noticed that many buildings lay in ruin. Silence filled the air. I called out. No answer. Where was everyone?

I continued walking the town’s main street. A heavily damaged shop with an open entrance stood to the right of me. I walked into the shop. I saw no one. A few cast iron pots and pans lay on the floor, their handles protruding from the sand which covered them. On the wall lay the remnants of a mirror. I looked into the small piece of mirror remaining. I saw myself: I had short brown hair, looked about eighteen years old, and had an olive-colored complexion. On one side of my head my hair had turned white. When I ran my fingers through my hair the white disappeared—it had only been sand. I left the shop and continued walking. The town looked familiar. Every town in my province, however, followed a standard layout making it difficult to tell one town from another. With so much devastation to the buildings I couldn’t make out what town it had been. I could not see even one sign post, anywhere.

Finally I came upon the remains of what must have been a wealthy nobleman’s home-- only a nobleman could have lived in such a large house. The front porch had collapsed inwards, toppling four Corinthian style pillars. Huge slabs of blue marble carvings lay scattered on the ground in the front of the building—obviously a fresco at one time. I walked cautiously through the rubble and entered what must have been the foyer. The left wall still stood even though it had been completely covered with the same fine white powder present throughout the town. I brushed off part of the wall. A tile mosaic lay underneath. I brushed off more until a picture of a blue dolphin emerged. Several yellow fishes also emerged. I continued brushing off the powder. Slowly, lettering emerged. Finally I could make out the wording: “Welcome to all who venture into these premises. Here stands the house of a great nobleman, Germanicus Anthony, Mayor of this fair town, loyal servant of the Emperor.”

“No, it can’t be!” I cried out.

I brushed the remaining powder away, revealing the name of the town.

“Oh my God! What had happened! It must be a mistake!” I cried.

The name of the town was Pompeii—my hometown. I fell onto my knees sobbing. Everyone that I had known must be dead—all of my family and friends. But how? What had happened here to bring about such utter destruction? Had Vandals attacked the town? If so, where did all this sand come from? A month earlier I had left Pompeii. I had had a fight with my father. He had wanted me to stay and take over the family business in Pompeii. I had wanted to see more of the world. My mother had begged me to stay. So had my girlfriend, Olivia. Maybe someone survived. I had to find my parents home and Olivia’s. I ran out of the ruined building and made my way to the area of town where my parents lived. I found their house or what remained of it. The house had been completely destroyed. It had fallen inwards, collapsing the roof, the pillars supporting the roof, and the walls. If they had been inside they could not have survived. I sat down on the front porch steps and cried. For about half an hour I cried, then I thought of Olivia. I got up and ran towards her parent’s home. It was only about a ten minute walk from my parent’s place.

Her parents lived in a large house on the corner of the street opposite City Hall. I jumped over the rubble that lay strewn in the street and made my way to Olivia’s. As I neared her home I saw the remains of her parents house. The same type of destruction that had fell upon my parents home had hit her home as well. I collapsed in front of her house sobbing, crying out in anger, asking how the Gods could have allowed such disaster to hit such a noble town. I walked back to my parent’s home, standing in the midst of its ruins, waving my hands up towards the Heavens, crying out for help. Still sobbing, I sat down, and leaned against a pillar. Exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep. Several hours later I suddenly awoke—someone was shaking my arm.

“Marcus, get up, don’t worry I’m here to help you,” said my Uncle Cassius. I jumped up, threw my arms round him, and sobbed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A volcano destroyed the entire town. It erupted without any warning, killing everyone. No one had a chance to escape. I’m so sorry. Your poor mother and father!”

“Are they dead?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And Olivia and her family?”

“Dead as well. This has been the worst disaster I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

“What’s to become of me now? I have no one left in this entire world except for you,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I have a chariot waiting for us. I knew that you would return here. I’ve come here every day since the disaster hit, hoping to find you. The sun will soon be setting. It’s a long journey back to Rome. Come, my boy, there’s nothing here anymore for you. Let’s leave.”

I walked out of the ruins with my uncle. At the edge of the city we boarded his chariot. I looked back as the chariot left Pompeii. I knew that I would never return. A new life awaited me in Rome.

“One, two, three,” a woman yelled out.

At the count of three she snapped her fingers.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“In my living room where you have been for most of the afternoon,” said Diane.

“What happened? I must have briefly dozed off for a minute,” I said.

“You must have tapped into one of your past lives.”

“That’s impossible. I would know if something like that had happened. Let’s continue on with the session.”

“Continue on. With what?” asked Diane.

“It’s only 2:00 p.m. The session has hardly begun. I’m still waiting to be put under. Mind you, I’m skeptical.”

“It’s not 2:00 p.m.—it’s 5:30 p.m.”

“What happened?”

“You tell me! By the way, who is Olivia? You mentioned her several times throughout the afternoon.”

For a moment I felt stunned, like I had just emerged from a deep sleep. Three and a half hours of my life had disappeared and I had not even been aware of its departure. I felt scared. What had happened? Slowly my recollection of my visit to Pompeii returned. What I had experienced felt so real: The sand had scrapped my skin, I had touched the marble columns at the mayor’s home, and the warm Italian sun had shone upon me. For a moment the thought crossed my mind that either I had gone temporarily mad or Diane had slipped a narcotic into my tea. I didn’t know what to believe. Unlike a normal dream which I would forget upon wakening, this experience had become seared into my mind. Everything had been so vivid, like a grand 1950’s style movie filmed in technicolor, with myself in the lead role. The intensity of the experience captivated me--no ordinary drug or drink could induce such an experience. I had crossed into another dimension, tapped into the unknown, and lived to tell about it.

Diane analyzed my experience, telling me that my present family problems were a repeat of my previous family problems back in Pompeii. Her explanation sounded absurd, yet it rang true. I left her place dazed, yet intrigued. I never went back, but to this day I still remember every detail of my “visit” to Pompeii, as though I had been there in person.

Copyright © Eric Hamilton. All rights reserved. 1999