Twenty minutes and a 175 page book changed my life tonight. I broke up with Peter Kent yesterday and chose to avoid him until he had some time to cool down and collect his thoughts. I came home today after morning services hoping that we could talk reasonably and settle the matter of his moving out, but he still has not come home, called or emailed. I felt compelled to read a book I just bought called “Only Love Is Real” by Brian L. Weiss, M.D. even though it was not next on my list.

Weiss spoke of how soul mates recognize each other when they look into each other’s eyes and sometimes even before that. I thought of my boyfriend’s words from his profile, “My spirit will know her when we meet”. I loved him from that day and was sure he was my soul mate. Meeting him threw me off, because his eyes seemed veiled to me, like he was hiding something. His words struck chords that my soul had longed to hear again, but his eyes were always distant somehow. Only recently have I felt that I could see him, or that he was seeing me, when our eyes met, but by then the damage had been done to my trust and it was too late.

The book mentioned chronic pain and without my boyfriend in my life I have found myself fearful of reverting to the bone crushing headaches, the agonizing menstrual pain and the paralyzing pain in my lower, middle back. How would I cope with this pain without my boyfriend’s skills as a Chiropractor and Acupuncturist to relieve it? Dr. Weiss suggested that chronic pain is often the result of a previous life injury and is sort of a reminder to remember who we were and why we are here now.

I looked around the room at the Icart’s on the wall and the flair for the 1920’s and 1930’s that pervades my life in choices of clothing, art, furniture and cars. I remembered the reoccurring dream of committing suicide by driving my convertible at top speed into the rock face at the top of a mountain road. I remember the impact, feeling the steering column crush into my abdomen and through me. I remember the bone crushing impact of my head with the dash and collapsing windshield. I remember the anger of having been jilted and swearing that no man would ever do that to me again. I was arrogant, superficial, wealthy and full of anger at having been betrayed. I couldn’t cope with the feelings and took my own life with a sense of indignant revenge. The dream ends with me floating above my body, incredulous at my self destruction. I have had the dream many times and since my amnesia even wondered if it happened in this life and I had survived.

That could explain volumes. It would probably be my most recent death and would explain all of my pain. The car I loved most in the world was a 1937 Mercedes Gazelle convertible that Don bought for me. Don was born the year that type of car was new. I loved that car like I have never loved any possession. I drove it so carefully and loved the feel of the wind in my hair. I had a similar one before, but it didn’t “feel” right and I sold it in only a month or two. After Don’s disappearance, I was selling off the equipment and cars and one of the dealers kept pestering me to sell him my little roadster. I finally did and rationalized to myself that I would have killed myself in it anyway. It was a kit car on a Taurus frame, with a VW engine. I drove it like a little old lady. What would have possessed me to think such a thing or to part with the car I loved so much?

The author went on to tell how he regressed patients through past lives using a hall with doors on either side and he would tell his client that each door represented a life or an important memory. He would instruct them to wait until a door opened and then go through it and look at their shoes. From there they would describe themselves and then the relevant scene that was unfolding.

I have been told that you can’t meditate with an agenda and that whatever is most important will happen of its own accord, but thinking myself more disciplined, I figured I could go back to the moments before the crash and figure out where the rage came from and what I could learn from the scene. I went out to the hot tub hoping the warmth of the water would enhance that in utero passage, but the filter motor was on and annoying me. I couldn’t concentrate. I walked myself down the familiar 15 steps, but this time they were much broader than they have been while I was in hypnotherapy with Herb Hamilton. I stood in the hall, waiting for a door to open for what seemed eons, but the filter was drawing my attention away and I was about to give up when the last door on the right opened. I ran for it and looked at my feet.

I still had ugly feet but these were dirtier and more tan. They were more even toed than mine and they were bound in twine like sandals. My hair was black and long and I wore a white dress that looked like a sheet tied with a rope at the waist. I looked up and saw the coliseum full of drunken spectators. They were blood thirsty and screaming. My hands were bound and my feet were shackled such that I could walk, but not freely. I was tied to several others who were garbed like me. There were men, women and children of all ages.

We were Christians and these Romans hated us. They didn’t understand us. One on one, we could reach them with the Truth, but in howling masses like this there was no hope for them. I knew we were here to be killed by lions, but I was at peace. I knew what was on the other side and this moment would be brief and painless. My loved ones were not with me and I had no thought about those I would be leaving behind. Perhaps there were none. The others were afraid and tried to run, pulling each other down. The children were the first to fall and the lions dove in for them first, ripping them apart. My heart went out to the children in their fear but also to the cats that had been starved and tortured to insure that they would do their job this day. I saw others in the group being mauled and ripped limb from limb. Although I was attached to them, I was not pulled down. I knew to stay face to face with the great cats and to not let them get behind me. (How did I know that?) A huge male was snarling menacingly just inches from my face, but I did not back away. I dropped my gaze in submission to let him know that I was not his aggressor. The lionesses and another male circled me. I heard Susan Aronoff’s words, “Look into her eyes…she’s an old soul.” I looked up and saw Sarabi looking back at me with all of the love that she looks at me with now. She was there to let me know that I was not alone.

I looked for Mufasa. I knew he would be here too, and he was. His eyes spoke the same comfort to me. I had done my job, this life was over and they were here to see me to the other side. I turned my back on the aggressive lion and stared back with recognition and appreciation at Sarabi. The angry lion took my neck into his great jowls and with one quick and painless thrust of his canines through my neck and spinal cord my spirit was released. (I broke my neck in an auto accident when I was 16).

I began to cry, gently at first for the loving spirits that they were to see me through, but then I thought of Mufasa’s death. I had ridden in the back of my pick up in his cage with him all the way from Tampa to Gainesville. I held him closely, my face buried in his mane. I told him I would be there for him. I knew I was going to lose him, even though he was only supposed to be going in for X-rays. I stayed with him until he was asleep, under anesthesia. The vets made me leave him there that night and I got the call the next morning that he was dead. My tears now became more violent as I cursed myself for not staying with him like he had done for me. I knew before the call that he was dead. He had come to me to let me know, just minutes before.

Susan might be the most unenlightened person I have ever met, but her words ring in my ears every time I see a photo of Sarabi and Mufasa and every time I look into Sarabi’s eyes. The lesson in that is that even the dullest person has reason for his or her existence and that no one should be discounted. It is ironic to note that Sarabi was chosen as the cat most closely resembling the extinct Barbary Lion when the King of Morocco sent Wildlink to the U.S. to look at 327 lions in zoos across the nation. They only selected two for the reintroduction program and Sarabi was the female. I thought it strange that the rarest cat in the world would be living here on Easy Street. The Barbary Lions were the cats used to kill Christians in Rome.

I remembered the grief that Sarabi went through when Mufasa did not return. She had strength and will beyond description to break free of her half-acre cage to go to him. I could not console her. We grieved together, but maybe her more so, because I think she was the more enlightened soul. I remembered how both of them always hugged my neck so tightly, as if they never wanted to let go. I thought back to the day Sarabi nearly killed me by accident when she hugged me around the chest, instead of my neck, and I couldn’t breathe. That was the last time I went in with her and I have missed her hugs more than any human touch that I have ever encountered. My tears then came as great heaving sobs. I hardly recognized my own voice as I wailed. How I love them both!

How horrible that this beautiful spirit is confined to a prison cell her entire life, separated from her soul mate and only able to make contact with me at my discretion. I thought of all the wondrous spirits of all the cats that I have felt such a strong connection with. I wondered if we have been lovers, parent and child or siblings over the eons and now they are confined to live out their majesty in the confines of a prison with no hope of release and no hope of ever being able to connect with the others that they too have loved. And those are just the cats I know. What about all of the cats that I look at, and love, but do not recognize? What lives have they given up to teach us the importance of love, compassion, respect and responsibility?

I am confined to only seeing cats with this ability. What of all the animals? All of them here at our pleasure, some to be eaten, others to be worn, others to be killed for sport, others to be gawked at in zoos and entertainment, some to endure the misery of research, others to be abandoned as pets… The list of ways that we are cruel are endless.

All of this happened in 20 minutes, but it forever changed the way I see these animals and it strengthened my resolve to see to it that the lesson they have to teach is heard.

I've been writing my story since I was able to write, but when the media goes to share it, they only choose the parts that fit their idea of what will generate views. If I'm going to share my story, it should be the whole story. The titles are the dates things happened. If you have any interest in who I really am please start at the beginning of this playlist: http://savethecats.org/

I know there will be people who take things out of context and try to use them to validate their own misconception, but you have access to the whole story. My hope is that others will recognize themselves in my words and have the strength to do what is right for themselves and our shared planet.

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Music (if any) from Epidemic Sound (http://www.epidemicsound.com) This video is for entertainment purposes only and is my opinion.