“You have lived at least 300 lives, many of them a monastic life.”
A past life regression therapist said this to me a few months ago as I was tying my sneakers, following an emotionally charged four-hour session. I remember looking up from my shoelaces and seeing this man bowing to me, with a kind of reverence that still gives me goosebumps.
If what he says is true — as my open-minded spirit battles with my inner skeptic here — then it’s not so far off from the way I live my life now.
I’m not monastic in the religious sense — the orange robes, bibles or any of that stuff. But I am a seeker who is beginning to accept this: I enjoy solitude. The type of peaceful solitude revealed to me in one of two lives I experienced during my past life regression.
I enjoy silence. And being with my thoughts. Or not being with them. I choose to travel by myself more often than with others, because it gives me space to reflect and investigate. I often choose to spend the evenings by myself versus with friends or seeking out dates.
I am still conflicted about this, as I don’t think this is what I “should” be doing. Not as a spunky thirty-something. I should be out and about, mingling with men and batting my eyelashes. Yet, being alone is what I am compelled to do. Or perhaps it’s just what I’m more comfortable doing.
This Mother’s Day, I spent the afternoon with my parents, sisters and my sisters’ husbands. When I looked around the table and realized that I was the only person without a mate, I became sad. Then I became envious. Then I became curious.
Could the echoes of my previous lives as a monastic creature be unconsciously shaping my approach to life as a 21st-century woman living in Chicago?