Synopsis
Sylvia Browne is a world-renowned psychic and best-selling author. In this book she shows how many of the health and relationship problems we are experiencing in our present lives could be the result of unresolved issues in our past lives. Bizarre phobias, unexplained illnesses, irrational anxieties and the partners we choose can all have their roots in our past lives, and even birthmarks and recurring dreams can be traced back to an earlier existence Includes powerful stories of people who have positively changed their lives through their understanding of previous lives.
Extract taken from Past Lives, Future Healing.
LeeAnne - Fear of Fire
ONE OF THE MANY FASCINATING THINGS about regressions and cell-memory work is the number of unexpected, even unmasked, questions whose answers start to unfold when past lives are given a chance to surface. LeeAnne, a twenty-eight-year-old architect, was a perfect example. She'd been to several of my lectures and was very curious about her past lives, but she hoped in the process that she could get rid of her overwhelming fear of fire. By her own admission, it was extreme. News footage of major fires made her cry and gave her nightmares. She couldn't be in the same room with a harmless fire in the fireplace, and was literally sickened by the smell of burning wood. She couldn't bring herself to strike a match, or sit quietly relaxed without breaking out in a cold sweat when someone near her struck one. In fact, it was a major act of courage and self-control to sit in a restaurant or a friend's house surrounded by lighted candles without darting around blowing them all out.
"There's not a chance that anything in this life caused this, " she told me. "I've talked to my parents and everyone else in my family, and apparently even when I was a baby I would start screaming hysterically every time my dad pulled out his cigarette lighter." She paused and took a deep breath before going on. "If I tell you something I've never told any other living soul, do you promise not to laugh?"
"You think I'm in a position to laugh at anyone?" I asked. "I know exactly how crazy this sounds, but between this fire phobia and the odor of wood burning making me sick and my fascination with her while I was growing up "
"Your fascination with who?"
She lowered her eyes, almost too embarrassed to say it. "I'm starting to wonder if maybe in a past life I might have been Joan of Arc."
To be honest, I would have loved that. I knew she'd never been Joan of Arc, but I would have loved it. I have yet to meet anyone who's the incarnation of anyone I've ever heard of. I also knew exactly what had happened to LeeAnne in a past life. But rather than influence her regression in any way, I simply replied, "Well, why don't we get started and find out?" Several minutes later, when she was fully hypnotized and completely relaxed, I told her to go to her point of entry (Move to the past life condition that has caused the symptoms in the present).
Sure enough, she didn't travel back in time to France in the early 1400s. Instead, she began describing thick ropes roughly chafing her wrists and her ankles, unable to move from the pile of wooden planks and dry branches she's standing on, surrounded by a sea of onlookers, some with faces contorted with hatred but others openly weeping. The voices are loud and mean, a chant, but she can't make out the words. Helpless, in frozen, panicked disbelief, she scans the crowd, meets one pair of eyes, a man's. In the moment before he turns his eyes away, unable to look at her, she knows he put her here, and that he's sorry and wishes he weren't too weak to stop this. Four men step forward. She sees them lighting the torches they're carrying, turning the night red-orange and cracking with anger. She's terrified, long awful minutes away from death, refusing to make a sound, refusing to give these people the satisfaction of her terror in the face of the unspeakable unfairness that's ending her life.
"Go to the observant position, LeeAnne," I insisted. "This isn't happening now, you're a safe distance away, you're only watching, you're not in any danger, just tell me what you're seeing, but don't feel it." Then, already knowing the answer, I quietly said, "Tell me where you are."
"My God," she whispered, "It's Salem."
Later, after the regression, we sat talking about the experience. She new it was real and right, and she knew it had already done the worst damage it could ever do to her over three hundred years ago, so there was no need to be frightened of it anymore. Suddenly a thought hit her. "You know what I just realized?" she asked, amazed. "I've never had any legal problems, I don't have a lawyer, I don't even know a lawyer. I've never been inside a courthouse before, let alone a courtroom. But for as long as I can remember, I've thought of the whole justice system as one big, corrupt, not-very-funny joke. I guess being tried, convicted, and burned to death for being a witch could have left me with a bad taste in my mouth, huh? This cell-memory idea could really make a lot things fall into place."
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