From: "Koshek Swaminathan" <arasophia@yahoo.com>
Reply-To: theos-talk@yahoogroups.com
To: theos-talk@yahoogroups.com
Subject: Theos-World Re: DO WE REMEMBER? : digest: June 12, 2004
Date: Tue, 15 Jun 2004 08:15:07 -0000
It is obvious that they prepared their miraculous feats years,
albeit lifetimes, ahead of time.
Koshek
--- In theos-talk@yahoogroups.com, "Dallas TenBroeck"
<dalval14@e...> wrote:
> Nay 14 2004
> Dear Friends and S:
>
> Re: DO WE REMEMBER?
>
>
> William Henry West Betty was born in England in 1791. He appeared
on
> the stage at the age of eleven in adult parts, and at twelve he was
> playing Shakesperian roles in London to overcrowded houses. It is
of
> record that the English Parliament actually adjourned on one
occasion
> so that its members might attend a performance in which this
> precocious youngster played the role of Hamlet.
>
> ------------------------------------------
>
> When children come to visit me, they love to dress up in my
clothes,
> and "play lady." One day, Betty May had spent an unusually long
time
> in my room, and finally came out in a long dress, with a scarf
wound
> round her head.
>
> She said, "Look, Grannie! This is the way we dressed when we were
> Indians."
>
> "Oh, were you an Indian?" I queried innocently.
>
> She looked at me with surprise in her eyes, and said, "Of course.
And
> you too, Grannie. Don't you remember? What is the name of that
country
> where we lived when we were Indians?"
>
> I asked if it were India, maybe, but she said, no, that wasn't the
> right name.
>
> Then I asked, "Were the babies Indians, too?"
>
> Quickly she answered, "Oh, no. Not Jackie. Jackie was another kind
of
> man. Jackie looked like this" — and she drew herself up very
straight
> and folded her arms across her chest.
>
> "How about Jim and Sue? Were they Indians ?"
>
> She looked very serious for a minute, and then said, "I don't
> remember, Grannie."
>
> Then someone came in, and we were never able to pick up the thread
> again, until several weeks later when she told me,
>
>
> "Mother doesn't know all the things we know, Grannie."
>
> "Why doesn't she, dear?" I said.
>
> "Because, she hasn't been to our country."
>
> "But how do you know, Betty May?" I asked.
>
> The only answer I could get was, "You know, Grannie."
>
> And then we say, we don't "remember."
>
>
> * * * *
>
>
> When Baby Carla was six weeks old, she saw her Uncle Hal for the
first
> time. A twinkle came in her eyes, she smiled, and put out her
tongue
> at him! Ever after, that was her sign of welcome to him, though
> sometimes she ex tended the greeting to others especially favored.
>
> Between her and Uncle Hal there seemed to be always some inner
secret
> bond of delight and companionship, so that just as soon as she
began
> to say "Mama" and "Papa," she also began to use a name for Uncle
Hal.
> "Pak-kar," she called him.
>
> Her parents were mystified. What strange freak made that word, like
> nothing anyone had ever heard before? There was no variation in it
at
> any time. It was always clear and distinct—unmistakable.
>
> Before the little one had reached the age of two, however, Uncle
Hal
> died suddenly. Carla appeared to know nothing about it, except that
> several times in the next few weeks, and very contrary to her usual
> sunny awakening from sleep, she woke crying, as if her heart were
> broken. When her mother soothed her and asked her why she cried,
she
> said, "Pak-kar's gone !" She never again greeted anyone with little
> tongue thrust out.
>
> Two years after this, while Carla's mother was reading one of
> Breasted's histories, she came to a chapter in which was discussed
the
> similar roots of words in old languages. Across the page sprang
into
> her view this line, giving the ancient forms of our word, father:
> Greek Latin Teutonic Sanscrit Tibetan pater, pitar, vater, pakkar.
>
> It was four years later when Carla's father brought home from the
> library a book of travel on Tibet, in which was illustrated the
> Tibetan greeting, first used by Carla at the age of six weeks!
>
> * * * *
>
> Little Robert was the sunniest, happiest, most lovable little
> four-year-old boy anyone ever knew! Not only was he cherished by
all
> those in his family, including aunts and uncles and cousins, but
> friends — even strangers — found him "different" from other little
> ones, and with a strange power to lighten their hearts. But, one
day a
> terrible disease struck him swiftly, and he died.
>
> Little Robert's parents knew about reincarnation, and their sorrow
was
> more bearable because they had also heard that when a child dies
under
> the age of seven years, the same Ego might reincarnate again in the
> same family.
>
> Two years later, a little brother was born to them, so closely
> resembling little Robert that they could not help giving the babe
the
> same name. As he grew, old familiar ways were recognized, and the
two
> babes seemed blended in this one. They began to speak of the first
> little Robert as "the other one."
>
> Meantime, some of the families of cousins had moved far away, and
had
> never seen the second Robert. One day, when he was three years old,
> one of these girl cousins came to the house on a surprise-visit.
She
> entered the room where the little fellow was playing on the floor
with
> his blocks, and stood quietly for a moment.
>
> Robert looked up at her, smiled radiantly, flung out his arms and
> called, "Ong !" This was the name the first Robert had given her—a
> name which had never been used by anyone, save him!
>
> --------------------------------------------
>
>
> A GREEK LESSON
>
> I stopped short; I flung down the book. "It is a lie," I cried
> bitterly, "a cruel, hateful lie,"
>
> I almost shouted, — and the whole class stared at me in amazement.
>
> A strange outburst was that for the dingy, drowsy Greek-room of the
> little New England college. I was as much surprised as any; I stood
> confused at myself. For then it was that I remembered.
>
> The passage which I was translating seemed innocent enough—to all
the
> rest. We were reading at sight — the professor's particular hobby;
and
> he was exploiting upon us the Twelfth Oration of Lysias. .
>
> But I had been paying scant attention to what they were reading.
Greek
> was easy to me always, and the halting drone with which they turned
> the sweet Attic into their class-room jargon wearied my ears. And
my
> thoughts had drifted far away into I know not what regions of
> day-dreams, under a bright sky buttressed on purple hills, when I
> heard the incisive voice of the professor:
>
> "Leonard, you may read now, beginning with the seventy-eighth
> section." It cut through the mists of cloud land like the flash of
a
> searchlight.
>
> I started to my feet, found the place and began:
>
> "`And although he has been the author of all these and still other
> disasters and disgraces, both old and new, both small and great,
some
> dare to profess themselves his friends; al though it was not for
the
> people that Theramenes died, but because of his own villainy—'Then
I
> choked and stopped. Tears swam in my eyes, and a hot flash scalded
my
> cheeks. For in that instant first I understood; and in that
instant it
> seemed to me that they all understood.
>
> But the professor, rather mortified at my unwonted hesitation,
began
> to prompt:
>
> "Go on, Leonard, — go on, it is not so hard
>
> — `and no less justly would he have died under the democracy,
which he
> twice enslaved' — why, Leonard!".
> "It is a lie," I burst forth. "A cruel, hateful lie." Those words
> which he uttered so calmly had stung me like the lashes of a
scourge,
> — so malignant, so artful, so utterly unjust. And the whole world
had
> read them—this had been believed for centuries, with none to
> contradict!
>
> "To say it when a man was dead !" I went on. "And Lysias! for
Lysias
> to say it!" I had quite forgotten the class; I saw only the
foppish,
> waspish little orator, declaiming before the people with studied
> passion and hot indignation well memorized. But the people had
never
> accepted it They knew me better. . .
>
> "They would not listen to such as Lysias; they would make an uproar
> and rise from the benches. How dared that alien
> accuse the best blood of Athens!" Yet I could scarcely have told
you
> why I said it.
>
> My classmates were too much astonished to laugh. The professor laid
> down his book; mine I flung on the floor. My blood was boiling; my
> soul a tumult.
>
> "What does this mean, Leonard?" I heard the voice; I could not
clearly
> see the speaker.
>
> "I will not read it—I will not read another line," I cried. .
>
> For the past had opened like a darkness lightning-cleft; all in one
> moment I felt the injustices of ages; the shame of an aeon of
> scorn—and they asked me to read against my self the lying record. I
> would die again sooner than read it. I could not realize that they
did
> not comprehend.
>
> It was not often that Professor Lalor was at a loss for words, but
> there was a long pause before he spoke.
>
> "Young man," he said slowly, "I always like my students to
manifest a
> living interest in what they read, and this trait I have especially
> commended in you heretofore. But there is measure, Leonard, in all
> things, as the Greeks themselves have taught us; and this exceeds—
> this certainly exceeds. One would fancy you contemporary
authority." .
> .
>
> Again I had choked, but anger gave me back my speech.
>
> "Lysias an authority!" I exclaimed. "Lysias !"
>
> My sight had cleared. The class sat quiet, startled out of their
> laughter; the professor looked pained and puzzled.
> "There is a degree of truth in what you seem to imply," he
said. "It
> may be conceded that Lysias was somewhat lacking in the judicial
> quality. And as to Theramenes, Aristotle has expressed a very
> different estimate of him. Yet Lysias—"
>
> "He was no better than a sycophant," I broke in.
>
> "Go to your room, Leonard. You forget yourself." But the truth
was, I
> had remembered myself.
>
> After that they nicknamed me Theramenes: I was nicknamed after
myself,
> and none suspected.
>
> -------------------------------------------
>
>
> Stories
>
> Often boys and girls say: "Why, I don't see how ever I can have
lived
> before in other bodies! I don't remember anything about it!" Well,
it
> wouldn't be so strange if we didn't re member, when the brains we
are
> remembering through came new with these present bodies, and when we
> have crammed them so full with the things of this life! Indeed, we
> don't re member half our days in these bodies! Certainly, not one
of
> us remembers the day we were born—but we must have been born!
>
> Let us not be too sure people don't remember, or even that we don't
> remember. Many, many children have been known to remember, on
sight,
> places they have lived in, in other lives, and even grown-up
people,
> in visiting places they never
> saw before in this life, have recognized them by some special
mark. It
> is told of one American gentleman, on his first visit to London,
that
> while waiting in a lawyer's office to keep an appointment, he
began to
> have a sense of familiarity of the room steal over him. The feeling
> grew very strong, till finally he said to himself: "Well, if I ever
> have been here before, there is a certain knot-hole in the panel of
> that door over there—and if so, it is under that calendar hanging
> there!" He walked over to the door and lifted the calendar. The
> knot-hole was there, as he knew it would be.
>
> But recognition on sight isn't the only way of remembering. The
surest
> way of all is by feeling, and that doesn't depend very much on the
> brain. In fact, it is the feeling, which some sight arouses, we
should
> call truly remembering. Your brain does not tell you that you love
> your mother. You know you love her, because you feel love for her.
So,
> we are really remembering the friends of other lives, when we see
them
> for the first time, and feel we have always known them and loved
them;
> we are also remembering, when for no reason in the world we can
see,
> we dislike so intensely an other person we meet. Is it hard to
imagine
> the kind of Karma-seed in other lives which makes such liking or
> disliking in this one? What kind of seeds shall we plant now that
will
> bring us loving friends in lives to come? Yes, there are other ways
> still of remembering. In deep sleep, we know all about our past
lives,
> and sometimes a dream about one or another may come through into
our
> brain, when we are almost awake.
>
> Very young children, especially between three and six, "remember"
> words of a language once they knew. In one family, the parents were
> worried because their little girl was not learning to talk at the
age
> of two years. She was constantly "jabbering," but not a word could
> they understand. Then, one day, a soldier who had been in France
came
> to visit them. He began to pay attention to the little girl, and in
> amazement he said to the parents, "Don't worry about the little
one's
> not talking. She is talking very good French !"
>
>
> Have you ever noticed how some boys and girls seem never to have to
> learn some particular thing? For instance, one boy knows how to use
> tools without being taught; one girl doesn't need to learn how to
sew,
> or to read; one boy can sing from the time he can speak, while
most of
> us are years in learning how; some girls love to write poetry, or
can
> imitate the ways of speech and manners of others, but more people
> never can do it well in this life, however long and hard they try—
even
> with taking lessons. Well, all these facilities, or talents, are in
> evidence now be cause there was a skill in these things in other
> lives; or even a love for them, without much skill, — because it is
> the feeling, again, of love to do these things, that lives, and
goes
> on from life to life. Perhaps you have noticed that sometimes, too,
> people grow lazy with these talents, and they lose them. They must
> love them enough to make them always more beautiful by working for
> them, as a service to all, if they would keep them.
>
> Suppose we could remember all about our past lives? Remember our
> names, the names of our friends, all the things we did—both good
and
> bad? It really could do us no true service. It might not even make
us
> happy, for it isn't pleasant to look back at our mistakes. We are,
in
> our characters, all that these things meant to us, and if we were
to
> stand looking back at those pictures, very long at a time, we might
> forget the duties right now at our hand to do. Our "now" is made
up of
> our past, and our "now" is what makes the future, so it's the "now"
> that we must use aright. If flashes from the past come into the
now,.
> unbidden as a sweet odor, we can recognize them and smile, and know
> them for what they are—messengers to say there are many houses of
life
> we have lived in, and we have yet to build for our souls still
> statelier mansions. Such experiences aren't to be talked about to
> others, for only to the Experiencer do these "flashes" offer the
> evidence that we have lived before. All Nature bears evidence of
this
> same law of reincarnation for all who can see. Each one must see
for
> himself and in himself all that belongs to him, now or in past
lives.
>
>
> ---------------------------------
>
>
> HE TOOK THE GATES
>
>
> The following undoubtedly true story was written by a commercial
> photographer of Minneapolis. She is the elder sister of little
Anne,
> and up to the time of the incident, neither she nor any of the
family
> believed in, or knew anything of, the doctrine of re-birth. The
> article appeared in the American Magazine of July, 1915.
>
> "Anne, my little half-sister, younger by fifteen years, was a queer
> little mite from the beginning. She did not even look like any
member
> of the family we ever heard of, for she was dark almost to
> swarthiness, while the rest of us were all fair, showing our Scotch
> Irish ancestry unmistakably.
>
> "As soon as she could talk in connected sentences, she would tell
> herself fairy stories, and just for the fun of the thing I would
take
> down her murmurings with my pencil in my old diary. She was my
> especial charge — my mother being a very busy woman—and I was very
> proud of her. These weavings of fancy were never of the usual type
> that children's fairy tales take; for, in addition to the childish
> imagination, there were bits of knowledge in them that a baby could
> not possibly have absorbed in any sort of way.
>
> "Another remarkable thing about her was that everything she did she
> seemed to do through habit, and, in fact, such was her insistence,
> although she was never able to ex plain what she meant by it. If
you
> could have seen the roystering air with which she would life her
mug
> of milk when she was only three and gulp it down at one quaffing,
you
> would have shaken with laughter. This particularly embarrassed my
> mother and she reproved Anne repeatedly. The baby was a good little
> soul, and would seem to try to obey, and then in an absent-minded
> moment would bring on another occasion for mortification. `I can't
> help it, mother,' she would say over and over again, tears in her
baby
> voice, `I've always done it that way!'
>
> "So many were the small incidents of her `habits' of speech and
> thought and her tricks of manner and memory that finally we ceased
to
> think anything about them, and she herself was quite unconscious
that
> she was in any way different from other children.
>
> "One day when she was four years old she became very indignant with
> Father about some matter and, as she sat curled up on the floor in
> front of us, announced her intention of going away forever.
>
> "`Back to heaven where you came from?' inquired Father with mock
> seriousness. She shook her head.
>
> "`I didn't come from heaven to you,' she asserted with that calm
> conviction to which we were quite accustomed now. `I went to the
moon
> first, but—you know about the moon, don't you? It used to have
people
> on it, but it got so hard that we had to go.'
>
> "This promised to be a fairy tale, so I got my pencil and diary.
>
> "`So,' my father led her on, `you came from the moon to us, did
you?'
>
> "`Oh, no,' she told him in casual fashion. `I have been here lots
of
> times—sometimes I was a man and sometimes I was a woman!'
>
> "She was so serene in her announcement that my father laughed
> heartily, which enraged the child, for she particularly disliked
being
> ridiculed in any way.
>
> "`I was! I was!' she maintained indignantly. `Once I went to Canada
> when I was a man! I `member my name, even.'
>
> "`Oh, pooh-pooh,' he scoffed, `little United States girls can't be
men
> in Canada! What was your name that you `member so well?'
>
> "She considered a minute. `It was Lishus Faber,' she ventured, then
> repeated it with greater assurance, `that was it—Lishus Faber.' She
> ran the sounds together so that this was all I could make of it—and
> the name so stands in my diary today; `Lishus Faber.'
>
> "`And what did you do for a living, Lishus Faber, in those early
> days?' My father then treated her with the mock solemnity befitting
> her assurance and quieting her nervous little body.
>
> `I was a soldier'—she granted the information triumphantly—'and I
took
> the gates!'
>
> "That was all that is recorded there. Over and over again, I
remember,
> we tried to get her to explain what she meant by the odd phrase,
but
> she only repeated her words and grew indignant with us for not
> understanding. Her imagination stopped at explanations. We were
living
> in a cultured community, but al though I repeated the story to
inquire
> about the phrase—as one does tell stories of beloved children, you
> know—no one could do more than conjecture its meaning.
> "Some one encouraged my really going further with the matter, and
for
> a year I studied all the histories of Canada I could lay my hands
on
> for a battle in which somebody `took the gates.' All to no purpose.
> Finally I was directed by a librarian to a `documentary' history, I
> suppose it is—a funny old volume with the `s' like f's, you know.
This
> was over a year afterward, when I had quite lost hope of running my
> phrase to earth. It was a quaint old book, interestingly
picturesque
> in many of its tales, but I found one bit that put all others out
of
> my mind. It was a brief account of the taking of a little walled
city
> by a small company of soldiers, a distinguished feat of some sort,
yet
> of no general importance. A young lieutenant with his small band—
the
> phrase leaped to my eyes—'took the gates.' And the name of the
young
> lieutenant was `Aloysius Le Fębre.'"
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> Interesting?
>
> Best wishes,
>
> Dallas
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