I've lived a good life—obeying the law, dutiful daughter, kind to animals, caring about the environment. But that's on the surface. Every one of us harbors at least one mistake or wrong-doing.
Mine is painful to admit. I didn't want my first pregnancy.
In 1960, newly married just after my eighteenth birthday, I looked forward to an adult life with my adored husband, one year ahead of me in age. He had dominant tendencies, but with my love behind him, I hoped he'd soon drop that facade. When he told me he couldn't sire children because of an accident, I asked if we should get that checked by a doctor. His immense rage at my disbelief, quelled my inquiry.
After the first month of wedded life, I felt unwell and went to the doctor thinking it might be the flu. I'll never forget the red headed, mustachioed doctor's smirk when he invited my husband into the examining room to announce that I was pregnant.
My blog yesterday featured an article about a young couple who were giving their unborn child happy experiences because they anticipated his early demise after birth. The little one learns about the world, learns the language, listens to voices, to music, and feels the mother's emotions.
So my son's bad experience taught him life wasn't welcoming. His mother was angry and resentful. In hindsight, I would take that back—I wouldn't punish a fetus for my circumstances. But we can never undo the harm we've caused.
I'm culpable for forming that loving, generous mind at an early age.
Edgar Cayce, a renowned psychic healer who died in the 1940s, discovered many things about the before-and-afterlife. He announced while under a trance that each soul chooses their parents a short time before the mother's labor. They need the exact circumstances to help them to grow in their coming sojourn.
What if the person waiting for their emergence, needs a hard life to learn a certain lesson? What if my son knew what he would face and chose me anyway?
And now I'll tell you something. I used my son's sweet, generous nature in my futuristic co-written novels for the teenage Hugo. You'll see the covers on the sidebar, one click away from an Amazon near you.
Excerpt from Wind Over Troubled Waters, the first in the series.
After a breakfast of bread and nuts, and the chores finished, Cerridwen followed Hugo out of the village. With ten other people they hurried along the path, driven by something Cerridwen couldn't understand.
She called ahead. "What are we collecting, Hugo? Berries?"
"No." He turned his head to reply. "Our hunters will have made a drop. Every day they leave some of their kill for families who don't eat in the food hall."
She caught up, cape swirling around her ankles, and hurried by his side. "Why didn't we leave earlier?"
Hugo puffed out his chest. "Didn't you hear the sound of the horn? That's the signal." Barely a man, his slim legs and chest hadn't filled out yet and his nose seemed to be too big for his body.
They rounded a corner and she drew up short. Women screamed and men shouted. A group of about twenty people climbed over each other. A red aura floated above them. One woman pulled another's hair. A man punched someone in the side, grabbing his rabbit when the unfortunate man crouched to catch his breath. "Oh, no." Cerridwen hurried forward. "What are they doing?"
"There's a pile of skinned rabbits under there." Hugo ran forward and dived, all elbows and knees, into the scrabbling pile. Cerridwen slid her hand through her hair, aghast at everyone's conduct. People shouldn't act like this. Not in a place of plenty. Why didn't they simply share and follow some kind of system where people stood in line? It worked in the food hall. What a contrast. Here, everyone just tried to get the most, like a pack of scavengers snapping at each other. She wanted to yell at them to stop.
We don't know what happens after we die. Edgar Cayce said we go on learning in different levels of what we call Heaven.
After moving on from your mistakes, maybe forgiving yourself for past wrong actions is one of the most important things you can do.