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In 1973, I was living in Denver, Colorado. One weekend afternoon, I lay down for a nap and felt myself take that familiar fall into another place. This time, I was walking down a set of steps that had been hewn from solid rock. The steps led down into an underground cavern. I could feel the cool sweat on the wall as I descended the steps and see the reflection of the lights below on the moisture clinging to the walls.

Down below, there were many short, very slender men wearing diapers and holding torches. They were milling around and waiting for us to approach them. I "knew" these were the men who had created the covern we were entering.

I was near the wall as we descended the circular steps. On my right, was a man of about 35 years. He was hefty built, had dark curly hair and wore a short, but very full, beard. He had a ruddy complexion. I knew this man very well.

On his right, was his wife, a tall, slender woman of about his age. She had very long dark hair, which she wore pulled back into a ponytail that swung and fell all the way down her back. She had very a large pointed nose and very sharp features. I also knew her very well.

I was a girl of about 18 or 19, short and of stocky build. I also had long, dark hair. I was the woman's maid. Although I was a servant - actually, probably a slave considering the time and place - I was in an elite bracket of slave because the man was high up in the governing class, like a mayor or a governor, but not a king.

His wife was very proud of his position because of the rank it gave her, but she cared nothing for him personally.

I was his lover, and had been since I came into puberty. I genuinely cared for him, although he was a dullard, a plutocrat and rarely had an original thought. But I loved him.

We were going down to inspect his tomb. Everybody understood that when he died, his wife, all their servants and the workmen would all be killed to accompany him on his journey to the afterline. I knew this and accepted it.

At this point in the experience, I sensed what was coming and pulled myself out of this. I literally forced myself up off the bed and into the kitchen, where I drank a glass of milk, ate a sandwich and smoked several cigarettes.

I stalled long enough that I thought it was safe to go back to bed. But I was wrong.

The moment I laid back down and closed my eyes, the scene literally grabbed me and pulled me back down into it.

This time, my lover, the plutocrat, had died and they were preparing him and the tomb for his burial. It was my turn to take the transformation so that I could accompany his wife into the hereafter. They were stabbing me in the stomach and I remember it felt hot, hot, hot like burning pokers being driven into my midsection.

I was furious as I died. Not because they were killing me to accompany, I was furious because I was dying as her maid, not as his wife.

I believe this life and death were shown to me to help me understand why I always had to be the bride ---Never The Bridesmaid!--- in this life.

It cleared up a lot for me.

This past life came to me very clearly and -Thank God- very calmly.

I was a heavy-set middle aged woman in a tiny settlement in Ireland (or maybe Scotland) during the Dark Ages. It is hard to place a time because we lived in such a rural setting and there were no buildings or anything to help me date it.

I was married to a big, fat man who was a laborer of some kind. He was a good man, it's just that marriage wasn't based on romance in those days. He did his job and I did mine. He was pretty much irrelevant to me, on the rare occasions he was around, because my heart was totally set on my son.

My son was in his mid to late 20's and had been born with something wrong with his foot. I think it must have been a club foot. He was also very slender, pale and sickly. But oh, he had the most beautiful soul! My God, he wrote the finest poetry and his mind was so clear - like a tinkling bell - and when he talked, it was music.

I loved him so.

He made all the crude clothing, and drudgery of my life worthwhile. He was like a piece of fine porcelain.

He died when he was not yet thirty. I do believe I died when he did. Maybe not physically, but my heart was not in living after he left.

I did not remember my death in this life. I only remember the love I felt for my son.

In this life, I was a young boy. A beautiful boy with yellow curls and a total inability to take anything seriously.

It was about the 17th century and I traveled with a troup of people who went from town to town playing music and putting on little plays. Minstrels. I played a little recorder (to this day, I LOVE baroque recorder music) and danced and acted in plays.

I had many friends among the ladies in our troup, but it was the men I really loved. I loved to tease them and flirt with them and make them do what I wanted them to. I loved frustrating them and driving them nuts.

I died very young in this life, I believe I was killed by a jealous lover. Served me right!

I mainly remember the music and the traveling and the color and magic we created. Loved it!